


You and I shouldn't feel like a Crime

by Amber_Hollyhock



Category: Clone High
Genre: Bullying, Caesar is an asshole, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, High School, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Painting, Panic Attacks, Picnics, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_Hollyhock/pseuds/Amber_Hollyhock
Summary: Van Gogh is hopelessly in love with his disinterested best friend. JFK and Cleopatra are in the midst of a lover's quarrel. The love game proves to be tough for a sad artist and a dumb jock, but when the two connect at a party, an unlikely friendship blossoms, and perhaps something more than friendship.
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 117





	1. Kennedy

“C’mon baby, it’s time to get up,” Wally says from the doorway of his foster son’s bedroom.

  
A low groan emanates from the chaotic tangle of blankets and pillows that is Kennedy’s bed. Amid this web is Kennedy himself, sprawled out and lying on his stomach.

  
His foster dad sighs and shakes his head. “You’re gonna be late for school, baby,” he warns, but Kennedy does not budge.

It takes a few minutes of coaxing, but with the promise of hot waffles and fresh coffee, Kennedy is upright and rubbing the sleep from his pale green eyes.

  
Wally smiles. “We’ll be downstairs waiting for you.”

Kennedy mumbles a drowsy acknowledgment before stumbling out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. Once there, Kennedy looks in the mirror and grimaces. His hair, as a result of his shower last night, is devoid of any styling product and thus devoid of shape. It’s merely a brown, shaggy mop atop his head, the complete opposite of his preferred look.

  
“And you call yaself a Kennedy,” he scolds before grabbing his usual armada of styling products. After fifteen minutes and an obscene amount of hairspray and gel, Kennedy steps back and admires his reflection. His hair has gone from its messy mop to an immaculate, somewhat precarious coiffure. Kennedy sighs in satisfaction. It’s a truly beautiful structure, with a nice, healthy shine, a beautiful color, and not a stray strand or flyaway in sight. It’s perfect. Kennedy expects no less of himself.

  
Following his daily hairstyling session, Kennedy searches for something suitable to wear. He walks around his room aimlessly before, unsurprisingly, settling on his iconic red and white sweater, which is currently balled up in a heap on the floor. Kennedy picks it up and gives it a tentative sniff. _Smells clean enough,_ he thinks, pulling it on.

  
Before he joins his family downstairs, Kennedy checks his reflection again. He flashes a smile in the mirror, pretending it’s some sexy broad he wants to take to bed. He waves as well. If he’s practicing his smiles he might as well practice his waves. That’s what being the genetic clone of John F Kennedy is all about: smiling and waving. Eventually, Kennedy decides that’s enough smiling and waving for now, and hops down the stairs to join his dads for breakfast.

  
In the kitchen, Wally is sipping coffee while Carl reads the paper. They both say their good mornings and the family sits down to eat.

  
“Do you have all your homework done,” Wally asks as Kennedy shoves a forkful of hot waffle into his mouth. He merely nods in response, hoping that nerdy chick he pawned off his essay to did a good job.

  
Breakfast occurs as it always does, with Wally and Carl talking over the events of last night’s Golden Girls reruns while Kennedy noisily eats his breakfast. Kennedy doesn’t enjoy many activities with his foster parents, but the day isn’t complete without their family breakfast. His waffles disappear as quickly as they come and within a few minutes, Kennedy is slinging his backpack over a shoulder and waving goodbye to his dads.

  
In the driveway, next to the family’s old station wagon, is a cherry red convertible. Kennedy swoons at the sight of it. He swears he loves that car more than any of his previous girlfriends. He puts the keys into the ignition and it roars to life. He revs the engine and tears out of the neighborhood toward Clone High School.

  
The drive is short, but not short enough for Kennedy to go without singing along to his favorite 80’s songs on the classic rock station. He pulls into school and squeals to a stop in his usual parking space. He’s just barely unbuckled his seatbelt and he can already see his buddies from the football team waving wildly in his direction. Kennedy looks in the mirror and smooths down his hair. It’s showtime.

  
Kennedy steps out of the car and struts into school. In the hallways, he waves to calls of “JFK!” and winks at the hot girls in the hallway, who turn to their friends and whisper about how sexy he is. Kennedy loves it all. Each and every ounce of attention serves to inflate his ego and make him more sure of his identity. He’s the manly, womanizing, popular jock: a true Kennedy.

  
Eventually, Kennedy struts his way over to his girlfriend Cleopatra’s locker. His heart skips a beat when he sees that she’s still there, collecting her books for the day, her long, perfectly manicured nails tick, ticking against the spines of the books.

  
Kennedy smooths down his hair and goes to lean against the locker next to hers.

  
“Hey, Cleo” he coos in his hottest voice. They haven’t had sex in three, incredibly long days, so Kennedy believes they are well overdue for a night together, and his upcoming party would be the perfect place to do it.

  
“Hi Kennedy” she replies coolly.

  
“So, are you excited for my party tonight,” Kennedy asks, “And by party I mean-“

  
“I know what you mean Kennedy.”

  
Kennedy grins at his joke but frowns at Cleo’s response. Something is off with her today. Her tone sounds less like, “I wanna sleep with you tonight” and more like “I don’t want to sleep with you tonight”.

  
“You don’t sound that excited,” Kennedy points out, and his words are like a spark to a powder keg. Cleo turns from her books towards him, the thing on her mind jumping at the chance to be said.

  
“Look, Kennedy, I feel like I’m being taken advantage of in this relationship,” Cleo says suddenly. Kennedy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

  
“What do you mean? I always ask for consent-”

  
“That’s not what I’m talking about! Not everything is about sex!” Cleo says exasperatedly, “in fact, that’s just the problem.”

  
“The problem is that we have sex?”

  
“The problem is that we ONLY have sex,” Cleo clarifies, “sometimes I feel like you only care about me for my body. . .Kennedy. . .are you listening?”

  
“Oh! Sorry,” Kennedy says, looking up from her breasts, “I got distracted.”

  
Cleo facepalms. “I’m Cleopatra, the most beautiful girl in school, and I deserve more than thirty minutes of sheet shaking. I want a boyfriend, Kennedy. Someone who takes me nice places and buys me expensive things and calls me beautiful!”

  
“I take you places,” Kennedy says, and Cleopatra scoffs.

  
“Yeah right! The Drive-In theatre doesn’t count! It’s really unfair to hear people like Anne Boleyn and Helen of Troy brag about how nice, emotionally present, and considerate their boyfriends are when my boyfriend only acknowledges me when I’m not wearing any clothes! If you can’t properly appreciate me, then there are plenty of other boys at this school who can!”

  
A crowd has gathered around them, buzzing with excitement as the most popular couple in school hashes it out. Cleo is glaring challengingly at Kennedy, but he merely stares back with a blank look.  
“. . .So, uh. . .does this mean we’re not having sex tonight.”

  
That does it. Cleo lets out a humph! and shuts her locker with a slam, turning on her heel stomping away towards homeroom. Kennedy feels a twinge of remorse, but he doesn’t go after her. He’s the manly, womanizing, popular jock. He’s not supposed to care. Besides, they’ve argued before. This is no big deal. He’ll make it up to her at the party. They always make up. Always.

  
Kennedy smooths back his hair and continues walking down the hallway, waving and winking and smiling all the way. By the time he reaches homeroom the sting from his argument with Cleo has almost disappeared.

  
He’ll make it up to her. He’s not worried.


	2. Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh navigates through the treacherous hellscape that is his daily life.

Van Gogh is the complete opposite of Kennedy. He has no expensive car to drive recklessly. He has no girlfriend to have arguments with. No one waves to him in the hallway. Instead, he’s avoided like the plague and bullied relentlessly. He’s an outcast. A freak by all means. Yes, the complete opposite of Kennedy indeed.

Van Gogh wakes to the obnoxious pinging of his alarm clock. He taps the off button and flips on his bedside lamp, the light temporarily blinding him. After he adjusts to the sudden brightness, Van Gogh swings his legs over the side of his bed, the pale, bare limbs instantly wracking with goosebumps. His body aches for the comfort of his warm bed, but Van Gogh forces himself to his feet to prepare for the day.

When Van Gogh stands up, the painting he was working on last night catches his attention. It’s a rendition of his father’s famous painting of sunflowers. He scans it, every mistake sticking out at him like a sore thumb. He needs to look at the original again, maybe even start over completely.

For the past few years, Van Gogh has been studying the works of the original Vincent Van Gogh diligently. He’s got a full folder of photo references of his father’s works and he makes recreations of them all the time. It’s his life’s goal to master his father’s style and thus create more paintings for fans of his father’s work.

However, his quest to paint like the original Van Gogh has been fraught with tribulations. He has a difficult time finding the motivation to study his clone father’s paintings. He’d much rather be painting something his way than worry so much about technique and style. 

And there are also the critics. He’s had his recreations of his father’s artwork shown to professional critics before, and they were less than kind. “That’s too messy!”, “That’s too muddy!”, and “What is this even a painting of?!” are phrases often he’s often heard from them. Sometimes, he sees where the critics are coming from, and other times, it feels like he could show them an exact replica of his father’s work and they would still say the same things: “That’s too messy!”, “That’s too muddy!” “What is that even a painting of?!”

But neither of these things matter. Van Gogh must continue to practice his father’s style. He needs to paint exactly like his clone father. It’s the only way he can live up to his legacy. 

Eventually, Van Gogh tears himself away from the painting and moves to his closet. From it, he selects a pair of grey corduroy pants and a yellow turtleneck. His chills are abated once he slips these warm items on. He then moves across the room and pulls on his beloved blue trench coat. 

In the bathroom, he smooths down his unruly red hair as best he can, but he ends up getting frustrated and moves to his next task: switching out his bandage. Taking great care to avoid the sight of the scars from his self-inflicted ear wound, he takes off the current bandage wrapped around his head, picks up the fresh one, and ties it on. 

Van Gogh pads silently into the kitchen. The lights are on, but the house is empty, as it usually always is on Tuesday morning. He scrounges up a quick breakfast before grabbing the bagged lunch on the counter and walking towards the door. His messenger bag waits for him on the love seat beside it, and he pulls it over his shoulder before exiting the house. 

Since he has neither a ride nor a car, Van Gogh walks to school. It’s only about ten minutes away, but the commute takes a few minutes extra because he walks through the woods as opposed to the sidewalk. Van Gogh learned to avoid the sidewalk after some asshole chucked a week-old milkshake at him on his way to school. Van Gogh had luckily avoided the projectile, but the fear of not being so lucky next time has driven him into the woods. 

Van Gogh treks through knee-high fields weave his way around sediment deposits and walks beside tall oak trees until the distant yellow goalposts of the football field come into view. At this point, Van Gogh walks toward the side of the road. He stops before he emerges from the woods, staring anxiously at Clone High. Here we go again, he thinks to himself before stepping onto the sidewalk and advancing towards the treacherous high school.

Due to his lack of friends and strange behavior, Van Gogh has a lot of regular bullies. On a good day, no one pays Van Gogh any mind, but on a bad day, he’s tied to a flagpole or shoved into a locker or whatever other cruel jokes the popular kids decide to play on him. As cruel as they are, however, his bullies are not often that smart. Van Gogh has learned to avoid their designated hang out areas, walks behind large groups of students so he won’t be noticed, and NEVER eats in the lunchroom. It saddens him when he realizes just how much control he’s lost to these bullies, but he doesn’t bother worrying about things he can’t fix. He just tries to survive until his favorite hour of the day: Art Class.

Painting is possibly the best part of Van Gogh’s life, which makes sense considering his clone father. In the turbulent, tumultuous storm that is teen life, painting provides him with a sense of placidity and security. It’s the only thing that’s keeping him sane in this godforsaken school. So of course, he would enjoy a class where he can just sit and paint for an hour. That’s not all, however. Van Gogh also enjoys art class because it is the only class that he shares with his only friend and longtime crush: Julius Caesar. 

An involuntary smile spreads across his face at the thought of his friend, and that familiar, mushy feeling clouds his senses, making rational thought impossible. He and Caesar met in clone kindergarten and have been friends ever since. They’ve had countless sleepovers, made millions of memories, and Caesar always has Van Gogh’s back, no matter the circumstances. Even when Caesar got in good with the popular kids, he still hung out with Van Gogh. That kind of commitment is hard to find, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that sad, lonely little Van Gogh developed a crush on Caesar.

It all started in seventh grade, that glorious time in a child's life where crushes and romantic feelings run rampant. While all the other boys were tripping over themselves to win Cleopatra’s affection, Van Gogh discovered that it was his best friend who was making his heart go haywire. Four years later and he’s still in love with Caesar, and Caesar has no idea. This doesn’t bother Van Gogh, however. He’s happy to be Caesar’s friend, but he can’t help but long for something more. 

Van Gogh floats into art class, his heart beating in his ears as he imagines sitting with the person he loves and doing the thing he loves the most. He steps across the threshold of the art room and his eyes rest on Caesar, but his excitement is cruelly executed. Next to Caesar, where Van Gogh usually sits, is a blonde girl with a bob. 

Disappointment floods him. Van Gogh recognizes that blonde girl as Catherine the Great, and his eyes narrow in disdain. Van Gogh hates everything about Catherine the Great. He hates the way she looks, the things she says, the things she does, all of it, but by far, the thing that ticks him off the most is her insistence on spending so much time with Caesar. 

It started with little things. Van Gogh would see her talking to Caesar in between classes and during break, but soon their exchanges escalated to the point where it felt like Catherine went everywhere with Caesar. It was annoying, but now it had crossed a line. She had taken his place at Caesar’s side, literally, and Van Gogh was beyond pissed.

“Oh, hey Van Gogh,” Caesar says, drawing Van Gogh back to reality, “sorry, is it okay if Catherine sits here?”

Caesar is smiling, an almost pleading look in his eyes. It’s as if he’s trying to say “Help me out here! I’m trying to get with Catherine!” believing Van Gogh, as any good wingman would, will understand and leave him to work his magic. But Van Gogh is not a wingman, nor does he want to be.

Van Gogh wants to straight-up push Catherine out of his seat but instead forces a smile and nods. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, crestfallen, but Caesar doesn’t notice. He just turns back to Catherine and they keep talking.

Van Gogh moves to sit at an empty table in the back, fuming all the while. He walks briskly to the front of the room and begins collecting his supplies. Usually, he is more gentle, deft, and thoughtful when choosing his colors, but today, care is out of the question. Van Gogh tears through the bin of oil paints, grabbing every warm color in the bin before snatching a few wide brushes from the paintbrush cups. He dumps his collection next to his easel and looks at his canvas. His blind range is momentarily funneled into his craft. He assembles a mental image of his subject, and before Van Gogh even knows what is happening, he finds himself smearing Indian red onto the canvas with a wide brush.

As he paints, Van Gogh occasionally glances over at Caesar and Catherine. They’re giggling about something. God, he hates Catherine’s laugh. God, he loves Caesar’s laugh. God, he wishes Caesar would laugh with him like that. Was he that replaceable. Did a dumb blonde really take precedence over years of friendship? 

Van Gogh tries to be rational. Just because Catherine and Caesar might start dating doesn’t mean that Caesar will stop being his friend, or does it? Van Gogh knows how high school relationships work. They are an all-consuming and unstoppable force. Catherine will soon consume every part of Caesar’s life, and he will no longer have time for the sad little artist with a crush on him. 

***

Van Gogh trudges home. His irritation is evident in his gait as he trudges through the forest with careless steps, occasionally slipping on a mud deposit and dirtying his knees. As the walk progresses, however, his storm through the woods slows to a saunter. The fiery jealousy subsides to a distinct, dull sadness. He just wants to go home. There, he can lay on his bed, listen to some music, maybe take a hot shower and cry, maybe paint something. Sounds like a pretty alright Tuesday night all things considered. 

Van Gogh exits the woods a few minutes later and walks up to his house. Flowery plants and bushes adorn the outside of it, and a wreath of red, yellow, and orange leaves hangs on the doorway. In the driveway is an old, black Buick looking the worse for wear. His foster mom is home.

Her name is Charlotte Herring. An eccentric woman with a tendency towards chaotic and at times self-destructive behavior. She drinks too much, swears too much, and often resorts to comically violent extremes to get her way, but she doesn’t make any of that Van Gogh’s problem. Despite her own issues, she provides Van Gogh with a safe and comfortable environment to come home to. And she loves him. God, she loves him. She tells him that every day. Besides, Van Gogh has gotten so used to her behavior that he finds it humorous where others might find it disturbing. She may not be the most conventional parent, but Van Gogh loves her all the same. 

Van Gogh steps up onto the patio. He stands in front of the door for a moment, trying to gain his composure and appear as unbothered by the day as possible. After a moment of preparation, Van Gogh turns the handle and steps inside. 

Charlotte Herring sits at the kitchen table, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she types away at her laptop, only pausing to take sips from the glass of white wine at her side. It’s strange to see her like this. She looks so professional, so sophisticated. He only gets to see this side of her for a moment before she looks up and smiles.

“Tater tot!” she exclaims, getting up from her seat.

“Mom!” Van Gogh hides his face in his hands. She calls him stupid names like that all the time. Where she derives them, Van Gogh has no clue, but they’re dumb either way. 

“Oh hush! I know you love it,” Charlotte says, wrapping her arms around her foster son and hugging him tightly. 

“What’s today’s color?” Van Gogh asks when Charlotte finally lets go of him. 

Charlotte puts a finger on her chin and thinks for a minute. “Cyan” Charlotte she finally answers, “things went well. I think today’s the first day since I joined Digital and Beyond that I haven’t wanted to rip Paul’s throat out.”

“Ah” Van Gogh says, and he adds “is that why the glass is fuller than usual?”

Charlotte swats him lightly on the head. “You smart aleck!”

Van Gogh laughs.

“Oh, but enough about me,” Charlotte says, leaning against the table, swishing her wine around in its glass, “what about you? What’s your color of the day?”

Van Gogh replays the day in his head, the image of Catherine the Great sitting in his seat rekindling his anger. Indian Red comes to mind, but he knows he shouldn’t say it.

“Oh, probably uh. . .beige.”

Charlotte spits out a little wine. “Beige?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Charlotte doesn’t seem convinced, and a serious look crosses her face, “did something happen?”

“No, no, no,” Van Gogh lies, suppressing the image of Caesar and Catherine, “it was just really dull.”

“Okay,” Charlotte sits back up, “just making sure. You’d tell me if something was wrong, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Definitely,” Van Gogh lies, guilt at lying to his foster mom eating away at him.

When Charlotte returns to her computer, Van Gogh retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. His room, like everything else he owns, smells of oil paints and turpentine. A desk sits across from his bed, covered with paint marks, cups holding paint brushes, and boxes of other art supplies. Cluttered, but organized. Just how Van Gogh prefers it. An easel sits on the right of the desk and a drying rack on the left. The drying rack is nestled between the desk and a large shelf stuffed with books and nick-nacks he’s collected over the years. It’s home. Small, cluttered, and covered in paint, but home. 

Van Gogh flops on his bed and sighs. So begins a lonely night of stewing in his jealousy, loneliness, and self-hatred. He really should talk to someone about this. His mother is the obvious choice. He used to tell her everything as a kid, but now he finds it hard to talk to her about the things that bother him. He doesn’t want to worry Charlotte or change the way she thinks about him. That’s why he calls the hotline instead of talking to the people he loves. There is no image of yourself to preserve when you’re talking to a stranger. 

Charlotte ends up going out to eat with a friend from high school, so Van Gogh has the house to himself. He doesn’t have dinner. His appetite and overall drive to do anything is lacking. So he just lays in bed, listens to music, and mindlessly scrolls on his phone. 

Night falls, and with it comes an influx of posts about JFK’s party. Van Gogh scrolls past seemingly endless images of kids from school getting shitfaced, dancing, and carrying on. He rolls his eyes. ‘Who has a party on Tuesday night?’ he thinks, but he can’t ignore his longing to be included in the festivities. 

As Van Gogh scrolls through Instagram, he spots a post that causes his heart to stop. 

The post is of Catherine and Caesar, arms wrapped around one another as fellow students party around them. They’re smiling into the camera. Caesar is in the middle of laughing. ‘Hanging with this cutie at @JFK’s party’ was the caption.  
They look so cute together. So happy.

It makes Van Gogh sick.

Van Gogh screams and throws his phone across the room. Images of the pair flash through his mind. Caesar and Catherine laughing at nothing, Caesar and Catherine cuddling, Caesar and Catherine kissing, Caesar and Catherine doing everything else that high school sweethearts do. It’s unbearable for Van Gogh. He can’t handle it any longer. He needs to talk to Caesar. He needs to tell him how he feels.

He’s going to that party. 

Van Gogh moves quickly. He swaps out his yellow turtleneck and grey pants for black hoodie and jeans. He stuffs a few pillows underneath the sheets on his bed, hangs up his clothes, and flicks his lights off. No one suspects a thing. 

In the light of the moon, Van Gogh moves to his window and unlocks it, slipping out into the cool October night and disappearing down the sidewalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 boooiiiissss. 
> 
> I know these first few chapters have been pretty boring, but it’s about to get interesting real soon. 
> 
> Charlotte’s character is loosely based off of @hye.ri.ii’s version of Van Gogh’s foster mom from her (now discontinued) comic JFGogh Amnesia. That’s not an endorsement of the comic, but all the same, I’d be lying if I said Charlotte’s chaotic nature wasn’t inspired by her. 
> 
> Updates come every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday at 5:00 PM EST. Constructive Criticism is always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	3. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh goes to Kennedy's party, and all hell breaks loose

Kennedy’s party is an absolute blowout. Calling it lively is an understatement. The party is insane. The house rattles with a thunderous cacophony from which the origin is unknown. The tang of alcohol and vomit wafts through the air. Teenagers get it on to classic rock. Fights break out, relationships are ruined, kids have sex in the guest bedroom, and drama reigns supreme. It is the definition of youth.

Kennedy is usually in the thick of the heat. He loves that kind of thing after all. This is his kingdom. His Camelot. However, tonight, things are different. Kennedy is watching the party from the sidelines. He’s not wearing his signature red sweater, opting instead for his generic letterman jacket in an attempt to blend in. He’s holding a cup of beer, but this is only his first drink, and he’s barely taken a sip from it. His behavior is puzzling and somewhat disappointing to each of his friends, but Kennedy tries not to let it bother him. He’s playing it straight tonight. No hookups, no insane drinking, and no outrageous antics. Nothing.

It’s not easy though. Girls will walk over, lean up against him and croon his name in their sultirest, most desperate voices. The offer is tempting beyond belief, but Kennedy turns them down everytime. He copes by telling himself it will all be worth it in the end. 

He’s doing this all for Cleo. She wants him to take the relationship more seriously, and he’s making his best effort to do so. Maybe it’s the beer talking, but Kennedy starts to realize that he actually likes Cleo. Sure, she’s definitely hot, but she also makes him feel a certain way, like bubbles in a soft drink or twinkling lights on a christmas tree, and that’s something special. If taking the relationship more seriously is what it will take to keep her at his side, then he’ll do whatever it takes.

Kennedy’s lips curl into a smile. Yes, he does like Cleo, and he wants to tell her that. 

Kennedy moves from his spot by the wall to go find his girlfriend. He walks to the patio and sees her by the pool. He opens his mouth to call her name, but the wind is knocked out of his lungs when he sees that she’s with Abe Lincoln. Their arms are wrapped around one another and their lips are locked in a passionate kiss.

The sight drives a stake into Kennedy’s heart of stone. He can hardly believe what he’s seeing. How could Cleo do this? He thought she loved him. Kennedy feels something wet in the corner of his eyes.  _ What are you some kind of sissy, _ he scolds, _ get over there and tell Lincoln what for! _ Kennedy blinks away his tears and stalks over to the pair. 

“Just what do you think you're, uh, doing!?” he growls.

“Look Kennedy, we kissed,” Abe Lincoln says, “and I don’t wanna over exaggerate, but we’re gonna be together forever.”

“Come on! She’s dr-”

“No, I’m not,” Cleo interrupts, her voice is level and diplomatic, “Kennedy, I just don’t think it's going to work out. You’re too detached. Too emotionally ignorant. I need someone who’s going to be a real, emotionally supportive boyfriend who likes me for more than my body, and Abe is that someone. I’m sorry.”

“I-I. . .” Kennedy stammers, trying to muster up some grand response, some incredible refutation of her claims that will have Cleo running back into his arms, but all he can come up with is a weak, “I’m not detached.” 

Cleo sighs and looks away. “Goodbye Kennedy.”

“Cleo-”

“She said goodbye,” Abe asserts, and Kennedy glares up at him in anger, but doesn’t push farther. 

“Well fine,” he snaps, turning on his heel and stomping away. He can’t believe this! After all this effort, after playing it straight all night, Cleo dumps him for some lanky bozo with a beard! While he’s angry, he’s also extremely hurt. He really tried to be better for Cleo, but it wasn’t good enough. Now the only girl he’s ever felt anything for is gone. 

Kennedy walks into the kitchen and grabs another red cup. At least he’s got alcohol to drown his sorrows with.

***

Under the cover of a navy blue sky, Van Gogh journeys along the sidewalk to Kennedy’s house. He walks with his head down, listening to the sound of his keds as they step across the pavement.  _ Step step step. _ Steady and fast-paced, just like the beating of his heart. 

This is unfamiliar territory for the artist. He’s no stranger to sudden bursts of confidence and recklessness, but this is different. He’s not executing a fatal revenge plan. He’s not painting an embarrassing mural depicting the sins and shortcomings of his aggressors. No one is getting hurt tonight, except, if things go horribly wrong, himself. Van Gogh rakes a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s a dumb idea to go to the party and he knows it, but he can’t hide his feelings for Caesar any longer. Caesar has to know.

When he steps onto Kennedy’s front yard, he’s immediately greeted by some random teen throwing up next to the mailbox. It’s then that he truly registers that he’s at JFK’s Party, and a sense of vertigo shakes the foundation of his confidence. This is all so unreal. Attending a party, telling Caesar how he feels: These are things Van Gogh would never dream of doing, but he’s here, and there’s no turning back now. Van Gogh takes a deep breath, opens the door, and descends into the belly of the beast.

The party is everything Van Gogh hates. Loud noises, obnoxious behavior, and, most notably, people who hate his guts. Van Gogh searches the house, weaving in between drunk teens dancing to blaring music and peeking in each room in hopes to find Caesar. Van Gogh looks in the kitchen, and his heart jumps into his throat. He’s found Caesar, sitting on the granite countertop and laughing with some kids in football jerseys. Catherine is at his side, her head resting on his shoulder. The sight gives Van Gogh the final boost of courage he needs. He steps into the kitchen. Gradually, the group notices him and quiets down, staring in disbelief at the outcast who dare show his face at JFK’s party.

“Van Gogh?” Caesar exclaims in shock, “what are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like parties.”

“Caesar,” Van Gogh begins, ignoring his friend's statement. He stands up straight and speaks loudly, getting everyone’s attention, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Van Gogh, shouldn’t we do this la-”

“Caesar, I. . .” Van Gogh pauses, takes a breath, and looks up at his friend.  _ This is it, _ “I like you. . .as more than a friend. I’ve liked you for years, and I can’t stand the thought of you and Catherine getting together. I’m sorry, I needed to tell you.”

Van Gogh trails off. No one speaks. The loud music and wild teens carry on in the rest of the house, but that group huddled around the granite countertop remains frozen in time. The popular kids stare blankly down at the artist. Van Gogh, cheeks burning, stares back up at Caesar and only Caesar. His friend's face is fixed in a permanent expression of disbelief, and Van Gogh waits on baited breath for him to unfreeze and deliver the verdict. For now, he can only pray for mercy. Van Gogh is not sure what he expects Caesar to do, but it’s not at all what ends up happening. He watches his friend’s face morph from shock, to embarrassment, and finally to disgust. 

“Van Gogh!” Caesar exclaims finally, “What the hell! That’s so gross!”

Van Gogh’s confidence is popped like a bubble. Panic sets in, and he instinctively tries to reassemble the broken fragments of their friendship. 

“Caesar I-” Van Gogh reaches for his friend's arm, but Caesar bats his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he yells, “Jesus, Van Gogh! I thought we were friends! Friends don’t- friends don’t do this kind of stuff to one another.”

In that moment, while Caesar stares daggers at him, Van Gogh realizes the weight of his reckless behavior. He bursts into tears and books it out of Kennedy’s kitchen. The last thing he sees as he escapes is Catherine the Great snaking her arm around Caesar’s. She’s officially done it. She’s won Caesar, but it wasn’t like Van Gogh was much competition to begin with.

Van Gogh tears blindly through Kennedy’s home. He doesn’t care who he shoves or runs into. He just wants to be alone. Eventually, he finds himself outside on the west side of the house, the only place where no one else seems to be. He weasels himself into the crevice where the AC unit meets the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible, believing if he tries hard enough he’ll just disappear. 

The tears come harder. Catherine and Caesar being in a relationship is not preferable by any means, but it doesn’t compare to the pain he feels at losing Caesar altogether. Not only has Van Gogh lost Caesar as a potential romantic partner, but also as a friend.

Van Gogh buries his head in his knees.  _ Stupid stupid stupid. You should’ve just shut up and let Catherine take him. Stupid. _

Van Gogh digs his fingernails into his arms, pressing down harder as he replays the events in his head.  _ You deserve it. You deserve all the pain.  _

Van Gogh is so immersed in his own sadness, that he doesn’t register someone walking over to the AC unit until he hears a soft thud as they lean against it. His head shoots up and he locks eyes with John F Kennedy.

_ Oh shit _ . Van Gogh’s stomach twists in fear. Kennedy’s probably going to kick him out or, worse yet, make fun of him for his crush on Caesar, but the look in Kennedy’s eyes isn’t that of anger or triumph at finding the little party crasher, but rather. . .sadness? 

“Oh. . .sorry,” Kennedy says, voice small and pathetic, “do you mind if I mope here too?” 

_ Sorry? _ Van Gogh didn’t know Kennedy was capable of using such words.

Van Gogh knows who Kennedy is. He doesn’t know him personally, but the manly, womanizing jock’s reputation precedes him. Because of this reputation, Van Gogh has opted to steer clear of Kennedy, lest he gain another regular bully. 

He realizes Kennedy’s waiting for an answer to his question, and he replies with a quick, “Not at all.”

“Good,” Kennedy says, leaning against the wall and chugging the contents of his red solo cup. 

Van Gogh is speechless. It’s daunting to see the most popular boy at school in such a slump. He usually enjoys seeing people like Kennedy upset, but right now it’s just pitiful.

“What happened?” Van Gogh asks almost in awe. He knows he’s pressing his luck by asking such a personal question, but fuck it. He’s already committed social suicde by revealing his crush on Caesar. What more does he have to lose?

Van Gogh fully expects Kennedy to sock him in the jaw or call him a freak, but the jock just sighs loudly and replies, “I, uh, saw my girlfriend kissing anotha guy. When I confronted her, she said I was too detached from my emotions or somethin’ like that, and that she didn’t want to be in a relationship with me any more.”

“But you have your pick of any girl in the school,” Van Gogh presses, “why be upset over her?” 

“She was different,” Kennedy replies, staring out at the house next door with a dreamy expression, “I didn’t just think she was hot. I liked her personality too. She was really smart, and sophisticated, and just. . .great. She made me feel somethin’, ya know, and most girls don’t do that.”

This takes Van Gogh by surprise. The lady’s man of the school having genuine feelings for a girl? Preposterous! Unbelievable, but it’s a good kind of unbelievable too. Van Gogh can’t really understand why, but he likes the idea that maybe there’s more to Kennedy than meets the eye.

“Wow,” Van Gogh remarks, “I guess I just thought you were some stereotype who only likes women for their bodies.” 

Kennedy chuckles. “A little bit, but I really tried to be good for her. That’s why I’m wearing my jacket tonight, so that I wouldn’t stand out too much. I didn’t drink too much, I didn’t nail any other girls, but it just didn’t work. She doesn’t want me as her boyfriend, and I guess I can’t do anything to change her mind.”

Kennedy takes another drink from his solo cup. Van Gogh feels his heart ache with. . .sympathy? He never thought he’d see the day when he’d feel bad for Kennedy, but seeing him so broken and upset is just heartbreaking.

Kennedy turns to Van Gogh “What about you, shortstack?” he asks, “what’s eatin’ you?” 

Van Gogh hesitates for a moment. If he tells Kennedy about what happened, he might go blabber about it to his buddies who will in turn give him hell for being gay. Still people will find out anyway, so what more harm can it do. Besides, judging by the amount of empty red solo cups in Kennedy’s hands, he won’t remember this conversation.

“I liked someone,” Van Gogh begins, “someone who I wasn’t supposed to like. Recently, they’ve started spending time with someone else, and I got jealous, so I told them how I felt. They didn’t take it very well, and by this time tomorrow, everyone at school will know, and I’ll be the laughing stock of Clone High.”

Van Gogh feels the tears threaten to return as he recounts the utter hopelessness of his situation. As he tries to keep it together, a strong arm unexpectedly wraps around his shoulder. Van Gogh feels his face heat up at the sudden closeness. 

“That’s terrible, I’m really sorry for ya,” Kennedy says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, “jeez, you make my problems seem like apple butta.”

Van Gogh laughs at the odd comparison. Kennedy smiles down at him.

“Would ya like a beer?”

Van Gogh feels a lump in his throat. “A beer?”

Kennedy nods. “To, uh, stop thinking about it, ya know. It’s cool if you don’t want to, but. . .it’s just a suggestion.”

Van Gogh is about to say no, but with the knowledge that he’s lost his only friend, the entire school will know he’s gay by tomorrow, and that he’ll be lucky to make it to homeroom without being terrorized by the popular jocks makes him reconsider this choice. Since bad decisions seems to be the theme of this evening Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy and says, “Sure, I’d like a beer.”

Kennedy nods, disappears, and reappears a moment later with two solo cups brimming with an amber liquid. Van Gogh takes the cup and immediately takes a large gulp, but wishes he hadn’t. His nose crinkles at the unfamiliar taste. He recoils and sticks out his tongue, a gesture not unlike that of a small dog when it tastes something it doesn't like. 

Kennedy bursts out laughing, like really laughing. It’s not shallow or nasally, but a real, deep laughter that comes from his chest. It’s so contagious that Van Gogh joins in as well. There they sit, a dumb jock and sad artist, laughing on an AC unit in the middle of the night.

When they finally calm down, Kennedy holds his cup to the sky.

“A toast,” he says, “to two broken losers.”

“Broken losers,” Van Gogh echoes with a giggle. They both take a drink, and that is the last thing that Van Gogh can remember of that night. 


	4. An Unexpected Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh's confession to Caesar couldn't have gone worse. He's lost his only friend, outed himself, and is now subject to the bullying of the entire school. Things are terrible, but in his most desperate hour, Van Gogh finds himself making an unexpected connection with someone who'd never given him a second glance.

The next morning, Van Gogh wakes up feeling like absolute shit. He has the mother of all headaches, an uneasy stomach, and it feels as though his head is filled with cotton balls. He runs his tongue across his dry lips, and he can still taste the beer from a night of heavy drinking. 

_ I’m hungover, _ he realizes, dread washing over him, _ I went to a party last night and got hungover. _ He repeats the sentence over and over in his mind, but it doesn’t get any more believable. Van Gogh rolls onto his back and rubs his temples. A thick fog obscures the events that lead to his sorry state. Van Gogh lies in bed, willing the events to reappear. 

Slowly but surely, the fog gradually recedes, unveiling the disastrous story leading to his hangover. He remembers seeing Catherine’s post on Instagram, going to the party, looking for Caesar, confessing his feelings, and he feels an ache at the memory of Caesar’s rejection. Van Gogh buries his face in a pillow. He’d cry, but he’s too dehydrated to muster up the tears. 

_ By now everyone knows I’m gay, _ Van Gogh realizes with a jolt of mortification,  _ I’m out of the closet.  _

Amidst the horror of this realization, new memories begin to surface in which he’s sitting on an AC unit with John F Kennedy. Van Gogh recalls the conversation they had. Van Gogh remembers Kennedy telling him how upset he was that he and his girlfriend had broken up. Van Gogh remembers laughing at something Kennedy said. He remembers drinking beer together, toasting to their heartbreak.

_ That didn’t happen, _ he tells himself quickly,  _ snuffing out the warm fuzzy feeling welling up in his chest even if it did, Kennedy will pretend it didn’t, so it basically didn’t happen.  _

Regardless, precious minutes are being wasted. School is the last place he wants to be, but the sooner Van Gogh gets there, the lower the chance of being bullied. Van Gogh sits up, pushes through a wave of dizziness, and gets dressed. He walks into the hallway and immediately notices the smell of. . .pancakes? Van Gogh groans. Of course. Wednesday is the day Charlotte clocks into work at nine as opposed to seven.  _ Wow, Van Gogh, you really chose a good day to get a hangover, _ he thinks. He makes a brief effort to look the least hammered as possible and steps into the kitchen. 

His foster mom is leaning against the counter when he walks in. She’s wearing a fluffy robe and a pair of ugly slippers he got her last Christmas. Her short, chestnut hair is a mess and her brown eyes have bags beneath them. She gives him a tired smile and takes a sip of coffee. 

“Morning tater tot,” she says with a yawn, “I made pancakes.”

“Thanks,” Van Gogh says as he hugs her, being careful to breathe out his nose lest she smell the beer. He grabs a tall glass of water and the pair sits down to eat. 

“Sorry if I woke you up when I came back this morning,” Charlotte says.

“No, you didn’t,” Van Gogh replies, keeping his eyes on his plate. He can feel Charlotte’s gaze linger on him for a moment, and he wonders if she knows he was out last night, and more importantly, why she might be pretending she doesn’t.

Breakfast finishes in pleasant silence, and in a few minutes, Van Gogh is hugging his mom goodbye. He lingers in the embrace for a few moments, reluctant to face the horrors that await him, but forces himself down the sidewalk anyhow. The walk to school is nerve-wracking. He begins to imagine all the horrific ways he might be tormented, and his stomach knots with fear. He feels as though he’s walking the green mile.

Upon arriving at school, his hypothesis is proven correct: everyone knows. As he walks down the hallway, all eyes are on him. Some whisper, some glare, and others snicker. He hears some of the things they say too, rumors about how he showed up at Kennedy’s party and tried to kiss Caesar or tried to pick a fight with Catherine. None of these things are true, but no one is willing to doubt the credibility of such hear-say. It’s entertainment at Van Gogh’s expense, but no one seems to care that he’s getting hurt.

Luckily, Van Gogh avoids any outright bullying until the end of the day. He’s coming back from art class when he hears several sets of heavy footsteps trailing behind him. Dread sinks to the pit of his stomach. He speeds up a bit, but doesn’t try to run. He’d never be able to outrun them. He just hopes they’ll get bored with him quickly. He arrives at his locker and collects his books when the head of the group leans against the locker beside his. It’s Henry Rathbone, one of Van Gogh’s most prominent bullies. Behind him are a few of his goons from the football team, watching and stifling their laughter. 

“Hey faggot” Rathbone greets, and his posse laughs dumbly at the slur.

Van Gogh doesn’t say anything, a cold sweat forming on his brow. 

“Heard somethin’ about you last night,” Rathbone continues, his posse snickers again. “that you were battin’ for the other team.”

Rathbone reaches forward and takes a lock of Van Gogh’s hair between his fingers, twirling it as he might do to a girl. Van Gogh nearly throws up.

“Please, leave me alone,” he begs quietly. Rathbone’s posse laughs at his pathetic plea. Rathbone grabs Van Gogh by the arm and throws him to the floor. He lands on his face with a hard smack. A chorus of “ooh”s come from behind them. Van Gogh tries to get up, but Rathbone puts his foot on top of him and grabs a fistful of his hair. Van Gogh yelps as Rathbone pulls his head back.

“You like that, fag,” he asks into Van Gogh’s ear. Van Gogh’s breathing quickens and tears well up in his eyes. He shuts them, praying for a quick beating. 

“Hey!”

Rathbone, his friends, and Van Gogh look up at their newest guest. There, at the end of the hallway, backlit by the afternoon sunlight, is John F Kennedy.

“Kennedy?” Rathbone exclaims in shock, before smiling slyly, “would you like to join us.”

“No, actually,” Kennedy says, smoothing back his hair, “coach said he needs to talk to you. All of you.”

“Really? Well, tell him we’ll be there in a moment.”

“He said immediately.”

Rathbone gives Kennedy a long look. Kennedy smooths back his hair once more before crossing his arms, uncrossing them, and putting them by his side.  _ He’s lying, _ Van Gogh thinks. He doesn’t bother wondering why Kennedy might be lying. He just hopes that Rathbone will believe him. After an intense period of silence, his bully sighs loudly.

“Fine,” he groans in childish frustration, “c’mon guys, let’s go.”

His gang gets up to leave, but Rathbone yanks on Van Gogh’s hair once more, leaning down to the boy’s ear. 

“This isn’t over,” he growls quietly. Rathbone tosses Van Gogh to the floor and leaves with the rest of his posse. 

Van Gogh stays on the floor for a moment, trying to catch his breath when he notices a pair of brown loafers advancing towards him. He looks up to see Kennedy and feels a distinct sense of déjà vu. 

Kennedy bends down to Van Gogh’s level and holds out his arm. “Need a hand?” His tone is kind but his eyes keep shifting to the hallway and he looks a bit pale.

Van Gogh ignores his hand and stands up on his own. “Why’d you help me?”

“I, uh, felt bad for you,” Kennedy says, “I remembered what you told me last night. It really sucks that you’re being treated this way.”

“Uh. . .thanks,” Van Gogh says, surprised by the genuineness of Kennedy’s comment, “I’m sorry I snapped.”

“It’s alright,” Kennedy assures him, “I, uh, probably would’ve done the same thing in your shoes.”

An awkward silence follows his words, and then Kennedy adds, “It’s probably gonna be hell to walk home today. Would you, um. . .Would you like to drive home with me?”

Van Gogh goes red at the suggestion. “Oh no, no, no! You don’t- I mean- I- You really don’t have to! It’s a waste of time! I can walk through the woods.”

“I really don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Kennedy says, and while rubbing the back of his neck, he adds, “I, uh, I’d be doing it for me too. I really, uh, got a lot out of our conversation last night.”

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it, uh, was really good to be able to share my feelings with someone who gets it, ya know. Someone who understands. I’ve talked with my buddies about my breakup with Cleo, and they just didn’t see why I was so upset. I tried to tell them how I felt about Cleo, but they just didn’t care. You were the only one who really listened.”

Kennedy swallows hard and continues. “I was hoping we could have more discussions like that. Ya know, help each other through the pain?”

Van Gogh is stunned. He feels a warm, prickly feeling start in his stomach and work its way up his body to the tips of his fingers. Does this mean that Kennedy wants to be his friend? The idea sends a jolt of bliss through Van Gogh.  _ A friend. Someone wants to be your friend.  _

Van Gogh, still reeling from the idea of being friends with Kennedy, nods slightly to answer his previous question. Kennedy’s eyes light up. “So, do you wanna ride?”

Van Gogh looks away, color rising to his cheeks. “Yeah, I think I do.”

***

“Wow! This is your car!?” 

Van Gogh and Kennedy are standing in the parking lot, sun high above them as they stare down at Kennedy’s red convertible. Van Gogh’s hands are on his cheeks, a look of surprise and wonder in his wide, blue eyes.

“Yep,” Kennedy answers proudly, “1966 Ford Mustang. Isn’t she hot?”

“She’s gorgeous,” Van Gogh sighs, hands hovering over the red exterior, “what a lovely shade of red! It’s so tropical. It feels like. . .like a walk on the beach at sunset, your toes in the sand and your hand in your lover’s, not a care in the world.”

Kennedy is momentarily floored by the vivid description. It was such a beautiful comparison and from such a quiet, unassuming person. He’s awestruck.

Van Gogh notices Kennedy’s expression and his face flushes, “S-Sorry! Sometimes I can be a bit eccentric.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Kennedy says quickly, “I, uh, think I know what ya mean too. That was really smart of you. Didn’t think ya had such words in ya.”

Van Gogh smiles, “I’m a bit of a bookworm. That’s where all the fancy words came from.”

Kennedy nods in understanding. The awkward silence returns, and Kennedy clears his throat.

“So shall we get going,” he asks, jingling his keys.

“Sure,” Van Gogh replies sheepishly, and they get in the car. 

“You take really good care of your car, huh.”

“I love this car more than most people,” Kennedy replies with a smirk, “of course I take care of it.”

Van Gogh laughs. “Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?” 

“Sure thing.” 

“Could you drop me off at the art store? I’m running low on a few things. I can walk home afterward.”

“You got it, shortstack, and you don’t have to walk home. I can stick with ya.”

“Really? You don’t have to-”

“I insist! Unless you prefer I-” 

“No, I’d like you to stay,” Van Gogh says with a smile. 

Kennedy smiles back. 

The pair make small talk for a few minutes longer until they pull up to the local Michaels. It’s smaller than most of its sister establishments and has very few customers, making it the perfect place for Van Gogh.

He and Kennedy step out of the car and walk inside, a gentle ding announcing their arrival.

“Good afternoon Van Gogh!” the cashier greets.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Shive,” he replies.

“The people here know you?” Kennedy questions, casting a glance back at the cashier. 

“Yeah, I’m here all the time, and I think they’re fascinated by me because, you know. . .”

“Ah, so you have fans.”

Van Gogh laughs nervously, face reddening “No I don’t!”

“That’s not fair! I don’t have any fans!” Kennedy whines, and Van Gogh starts laughing even harder, putting a hand to his forehead in an attempt to hide his blushing face. It takes him a minute, but Van Gogh eventually regains his composure, and they set out to find what they came for.

Van Gogh leads Kennedy to the paint aisle, and he is blown away by the display of oil paints. There are bottles upon bottles of paints of any color known to man stacked on top of each other, the display taking up a good portion of the aisle. Kennedy stares up in awe at the endless amounts of paints, mouth agape. 

“How do you know which ones to use!?” he exclaims, picking up Indian red and vermillion, “look at these two! They’re practically the same thing!!”

Van Gogh chuckles as he drops a bottle of turpentine into his shopping basket, “well, I usually don’t buy every individual color. I only buy the three primary colors: red, blue, and yellow plus white and black.”

Kennedy stares blankly at Van Gogh. “You only make paintings with red, blue, and yellow?”

Van Gogh sighs. “No, I mix them together to make new colors.”

“You can do that!?”

“Of course you can! Look! Here’s what I did with only red, blue, and yellow:”

Van Gogh pulls out his phone and shows Kennedy a painting of an apple orchard he did last month, and to his surprise, Kennedy lets out a scream of shock.

“THERE’S NO WAY YOU DID THAT WITH JUST THREE COLORS!!!”

“Kennedy! This is basic art stuff! I learned this when I was in kindergarten!!”

“WELL I DIDN’T!!!”

“Oh my go-” Van Gogh trails off into a fit of hysterical laughter. 

“STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!” Kennedy whines. Van Gogh only laughs harder. 

“HOW DO YOU DO THIS!? WHAT HIGHER POWER DID YOU SELL YOUR SOUL TO YOU FUNKY LITTLE ART MAN!?!?” Kennedy exclaims, shaking Van Gogh by the shoulders. 

“It’s a lot of learning and practice,” Van Gogh says as he pats Kennedy’s arm sympathetically, and suddenly, a crazy suggestion pops into his head. Before he can think twice, he asks:

“If you want, I could show you some things.”

***

When Van Gogh and Kennedy return to the school, the parking lot is practically empty. Only a few people on the sports teams remained. Shadows stretch over the pavement, worsening the chill from the early fall afternoon. The pair steps out of the car, and Van Gogh leads Kennedy through the entrance and down to the art room.

“They, uh, leave the doors unlocked?” Kennedy asks as Van Gogh enters the room with ease.

“Yeah. Mr. DaVinci lets students come in after school to work on their art,” Van Gogh explains.

“Unsupervised?” Kennedy says, and Van Gogh nods a yes. _ This would be a perfect place to hookup, _ he thinks, but feels a stab of guilt. He can’t quite understand why, but Kennedy feels like he’d be disrespecting Van Gogh if he nailed some chick in the art room. 

“Sit at the table right there and I’ll get some things,” Van Gogh instructs, and Kennedy complies. He watches as Van Gogh collects his tools. His nimble fingers sift through cups of paintbrushes, eyes narrowed as he chooses which ones will suit him best. Each action he executes, from deciding between two types of paper and walking from cabinet to cabinet demonstrates a sense of confidence and purpose Kennedy would’ve never believed Van Gogh possessed. He’s been so shy this past afternoon that seeing him walk around with such sureness in his step is fascinating, but, Kennedy supposes, not surprising. Van Gogh is in his element, after all. He was literally born for this. 

“You really, uh, know what you’re doing,” Kennedy remarks, his dumb comment unable to hold a candle to the transformation he’s just witnessed. 

Van Gogh flushes a bit. “I spend way too much time in this class. I could probably navigate it with a blindfold on!”

Kennedy snickers at the comment and Van Gogh sits beside him, fanning out the supplies on the table. He’s got paint bottles of red, blue, yellow, white, and black, off-white color paper, two medium-sized paintbrushes, and a small clear cup of water.

“So, uh, what are you gonna show me?” Kennedy asks.

“I’ll teach you a little about color,” Van Gogh says, squirting dabs of red, blue, and yellow onto a paint pallet. He takes a dab of red and blue and beings mixing them. Kennedy watches in awe as the swirls of blue and red dissolve into a shade of purple.

“That was so cool!” he exclaims, “can you do more?”

Van Gogh chuckles and mixes yellow and blue together to form green, and following that, red and yellow to make orange. Kennedy oo’s and ah’s at the display, and Van Gogh smiles to himself. He realizes that Kennedy isn’t just some popular jock but rather a huge dork, and he finds this infinitely amusing. 

“Do you want to know a bit about color theory?” Van Gogh asks.

“THERE ARE THEORIES IN ART!?”

For the umpteenth time today, Van Gogh is doubling over in laughter as Kennedy has a mental breakdown. During Kennedy's fit, a few strands of hair are dislodged from his hairdo and fall in his face. They swish back and forth with Kennedy as he rocks in his seat, pretending to be going insane. 

“Yes, art is very technical,” Van Gogh says.

“Wow. . .I really don’t know anything about art,” Kennedy says.

“That’s fine!” Van Gogh pats his arm reassuringly, “here, why don’t I teach you about complementary colors.”

Kennedy nods, and Van Gogh takes a piece of paper and a paintbrush and begins painting. Kennedy watches as Van Gogh puts paint on the paper with confident strokes and a concentrated gaze. He drops the brush to reveal a circle divided into six parts, each one containing a different color of the rainbow. 

“This is a color wheel,” Van Gogh says, “the colors directly opposite of one another are called complementary colors, and they look very pleasing together. Like blue and orange here. Don’t they look nice together?”

Kennedy scoots closer to Van Gogh and leans over and looks at the colors. “Yeah, they do look nice together.”

“Complementary colors were a big part of the original Van Gogh’s paintings,” Van Gogh explains, “like in his painting of red poppies and daisies. He used green and red to make his paintings pop.”

“Ah, I get it,” Kennedy says. He pauses to brush the loose strands of hair from his eyes and looks at Van Gogh, “it’s like the whole “opposites attract” thing. Ya know, when two characters are in a TV show and they’re completely different and they end up dating.”

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy and smiles. “Yes, that’s exactly how it is.”


	5. Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK and Van Gogh meet up again at a Cafe, and things don’t go as planned.

Kennedy takes Van Gogh home shortly thereafter. When Van Gogh enters the house, his foster mom is standing at the door, looking just as confused as Van Gogh.

“Damn, who was  _ that _ ?” she asks in disbelief, watching with wide eyes as the shiny red convertible speeds off, “last time I checked, Caesar didn’t have a convertible!”

“It wasn’t Caesar,” he answers bluntly, unwilling to talk about his friend turned enemy.

“Then who was it?”

_ Shit _ . What’s he going to tell Charlotte? That the most popular guy in school gave him a ride home because he felt bad for Van Gogh?? Unsure of her reaction, he just settles on a vague: “Um. . .someone from school.” 

“A friend?”

“I’m. . .I’m not really sure.”

Charlotte raises her eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. 

Van Gogh retreats to his room and lays on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and ruminating on all the things that had just transpired. 

There was no way that anything that had happened that afternoon was real. There was no way Kennedy had stood up for him against his bullies. There was no way Kennedy had offered to take him home. And there was definitely no way that he had given Kennedy a lesson in color theory. It was preposterous. Impossible. Something out of the movies, but even in the movies the popular jock never hangs out with the geeks. Van Gogh frankly anticipated the collapse of the universe following such an out of character incident, but it doesn’t come. The world keeps turning, and Van Gogh starts to think it might not be that preposterous at all. Maybe he and Kennedy are friends now. Maybe in the wake of his loss of Caesar, he’s found someone else who will be his companion. Maybe. Just maybe.

~~~

“Hey shortstack.”

Van Gogh is alone in the hallway after school when Kennedy leans against his locker and greets him with his current favorite nickname for the artist. 

“Hi Kennedy,” Van Gogh says, smiling at him before turning back to his locker. So it wasn’t a hallucination after all. Kennedy is actually being friendly with him. 

“So, uh, I was wondering if you’d want to get a smoothie somewhere, ya know?”

Kennedy doesn’t ask to go to the Grassy Knoll, and because Van Gogh wants to avoid as many students as possible, he takes that as an opportunity to suggest a new location.

“There’s actually this cute cafe a few miles down the road that has some really good smoothies,” Van Gogh suggests, “I go there often.”

“Sounds good to me! You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The pair exits the school and gets into Kennedy’s car, with which Van Gogh has become somewhat comfortable with.

“So where is this mystery cafe?” Kennedy asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“It’s just off of Lewis Road,” Van Gogh says. Kennedy frowns.

“Oh, so it’s in that part of town,” he remarks, and Van Gogh feels his face heat up when he realizes what Kennedy’s talking about.

The further west you go in Exclamation!, the less clones there are and the more normal families you encounter. Therefore, in an effort to avoid odd looks and rude questions, most clones, even the relatively shameless ones, will avoid the west side of Exclamation! Aat all costs.

“I go there with my mom sometimes, and I’ve never had someone approach me,” Van Gogh assures him. Kennedy relaxes a bit. He casts a glance at Van Gogh.

“Alright, I trust ya shortstack,” he says. Van Gogh smirks.

“A horrible decision, really.”

“Oh! Is there a dark side to the soft-spoken Van Gogh that I have yet to uncover?”

“Perhaps. . .” Van Gogh replies ambiguously, and the pair laughs. Van Gogh turns to look out the window, still smiling.

“So how was your day?” Kennedy asks after a few moments of silence.

Van Gogh’s happy go lucky mood is dampened at the memories of being tormented by bullies, sitting alone at lunch, and receiving cold stares from his former friend and his former friend’s girlfriend, Catherine.

Kennedy seems to notice his downtrodden expression, because he follows up his question with “That bad, huh?”

Van Gogh nods, “People are still teasing me for liking Caesar.”

“That really sucks,” Kennedy says sympathetically.

“Has Caesar said anything about me?” Van Gogh suddenly asks, “I know you two see a lot of each other, so I thought maybe. . . “

“No, he hasn’t said anything,” Kennedy says, “I think he’s just embarrassed more than anything. I tried to put in a good word for you, but he wasn’t having any of it.”

“You did?” Van Gogh says, a smile forming on his lips, “that’s really nice of you, Kennedy! I would’ve done the same, but, you know, Cleo doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Kennedy smiles. “Don’t mention it, and uh, I think Cleo and I should maybe stay broken up.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. We both wanted different things, and I still miss her but. . .maybe it’s for the best.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Van Gogh says. The rest of the drive continues in silence.

They arrive at their destination a few minutes later. The cafe is dark and mysterious. Stickers, traffic signs, and other strange nick nacks decorate it. It’s patrons consist of blue haired girls and boys in MCR t-shirts. 

“This place is definitely artsy,” Kennedy assesses, “but I like it. Not my usual kind of eatery, but I like it.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Van Gogh says, and he leads Kennedy towards a table in the back. A lady in all black with nose piercings takes their orders, and in a few minutes they’re both sipping on smoothies. Kennedy looks around the cafe and spots an impressionist painting of some lilly pads by the window.

“Hey! Is that one of your dad's paintings?” he asks. Van Gogh turns around.

“No, that’s Monet.”

“Damnit!”

Van Gogh giggles and Kennedy huffs at his own severe lack of art knowledge. When Van Gogh finally calms down, Kennedy gets serious.

“Hey, Van Gogh, can I ask you a personal question. . .that mayore or may not be a little mean?”

Van Gogh gets nervous at the sudden change of pace, but he feels comfortable enough that he doesn’t say no. 

“Sure. I’ve heard worse from people who didn’t ask for permission. Fire away.”

“How come you don’t hang out with the other artists at school, like Monet or Picasso?”

Van Gogh is silent for a moment. He picks at the sticker on his smoothie as he thinks of an answer. Finally, he looks up at Kennedy and speaks slowly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully.

“I guess I'm asking the same question. We just never clicked. I tried to be friendly but they just didn’t have any of it. It’s hard to understand, even for me, but I was just. . . wired differently, I guess. It’s a bit frustrating, you know. There’s a group of people who love the same things as you do, but even they don’t like you.”

Van Gogh gets quiet for a moment, a lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. Kennedy reaches out and touches his arm. 

“Damn, I’m really sorry, Van Gogh,” Kennedy says, “maybe I shouldn’t have asked-”

“No, it’s fine,” Van Gogh replies quickly, “they’re a bit pretentious anyway.”

Kennedy nods, and the conversation falls flat. The pair sips on their smoothies for a little while, before Van Gogh looks up and starts talking again.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess it’s only fair.”

“Are you ever anxious that you’re not going to. . .I don’t know. . .live up to your clone father?”

Kennedy feels his chest tighten. He thinks about all the hairspray in his bathroom. His self taught boston accent. All the sports he’s forced himself to play. All the women he’s forced himself to bang. Kennedy sits up and smooths back his hair.

“I, er uh. . .no,” he says, “it just kinda comes naturally.”

“Huh,” Van Gogh replies, taking another drink from his smoothie.

Kennedy smooths back his hair again. “What do you mean ‘huh’?”

“Well. . .I guess I just thought you were pretending to act like a manly, womanizing jock because you felt like you had to, you know? You haven’t been acting like that at all around me so I wondered. . .you know. . .”

It’s just an off hand conjecture. It’s not meant to be taken seriously, but either way, Kennedy snaps. “So are you sayin’ I’m faking it?!” he growls.

Van Gogh jumps at the sudden mood change. “Well-I-”

“You are, aren’t you!” Kennedy yells, his voice getting louder, “so ya spent two afta noons with me and now ya think ya know all about me!”

“Kennedy! What’s gotten into you,” Van Gogh says, “this isn’t like you!”

“Well maybe it is! How would you know, after all!? You just met me and ya think ya can tell me who I am and am not!?”

“No no! Kennedy! I’m sorry! I just,” Van Gogh pauses, looking away, “I thought you were like me. . .”

“Well I’m nothing like you!” Kennedy yells, pointing an accusing finger at the artist “I’m not some sad, sissy artist with a crush on his best friend! I’m manly! I’m strong! I’m a womanizer! I’m. . .” Kennedy pauses to smooth back his hair, “I’m a Kennedy. . .And we’re nothing alike!!”

A pin drop silence falls over the cafe. All the patrons are looking at the fighting clones. Tears roll down Van Gogh’s cheeks. Kennedy’s still panting from his rant. 

Kennedy gets out of his seat. “I have to go,” he mumbles.

Van Gogh gets up after him. “Wait, Kennedy! I don’t have a ride-” 

“Then fucking walk!” Kennedy slams the door behind him, the glass pane rattling.

Van Gogh is frozen in the middle of the cafe, hand still outstretched toward the door, silently pleading for Kennedy to come back. 

_ Shit.Shit.Shit.ShitYou’vefuckedupYou’vefuckedupYou’vefucked up. You’ve fucked up all over again, _ runs through his mind as he stares, transfixed, at the jock stomping away toward his car. 

He breaks from his trance and looks around the room. Everyone’s eyes are on him. The fight with Kennedy and the attention from the cafe goers overwhelms Van Gogh. He dashes out the cafe, just in time to see, through tear blurred vision, the red convertible squealing off into the distance.


	6. Rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh's heart is in pieces. Kennedy is thrust into an identity crisis. In a time of great distress, Wally and Charlotte come to their sons' aids with advice and comfort.

Van Gogh returns to his street at twilight, eyes swollen and throat sore from crying as hard as he had been. Within the past two days, Van Gogh had gained a friend, but lost him in such a terrible way. The slow return to his neighborhood had been the cherry on top of this hellish sundae, each lonely step further amplifying his solitude. 

Night had fallen, draining the color from the suburban neighborhood as stars twinkled above his head. Van Gogh let out a shaky sigh. He loves the night, especially with its stars and beautiful blue hues. Blue. . .one of the primary colors. 

Van Gogh’s eyes welled up with tears at the happy memory. He had laughed so hard at Kennedy’s lack of artistic knowledge. He’d probably never laughed that hard in his life, and probably never would again. At least, not with Kennedy. 

_ You should’ve just kept your mouth shut, _ Van Gogh thinks as the tears fall down his cheeks, _ of course, Kennedy wouldn’t want to be compared to you. Now you’ve ruined things again!  _

He whimpers and covers his mouth as the tears come harder, _ Stop crying. You’re almost home. You can bawl your eyes out when you get to your room, just don’t let Charlotte see you cry _

After a few more minutes of walking, Van Gogh finally reached his house. He stands on the doormat for a moment, taking deep, shaky breaths. The crying stops, and Van Gogh forces away from the memories of Kennedy. He can’t cry in front of Charlotte. He doesn’t want to rock the boat like that.  _ Just say hi and go to your room, then you can cry all night.  _

Van Gogh opens the door to the house and walks into the foyer. He’s only taken a few steps from the entrance when Charlotte walks in from the living room. She's wearing heavy-duty rubber gloves, her hair is tied back and her face is glistening with sweat. It’s Thursday. She always cleans on Thursday. 

“Hey tater tot,” she greets, slipping off the gloves and wrapping her arms around her foster son. 

Van Gogh murmurs a soft “hi” in response, unable to muster up anything else. 

Charlotte pulls back, smiling down at him, but her smile falls and is replaced with a look of concern. 

“Is something wrong?” she asks. 

_ Fuck. _ Van Gogh feels a lump in his throat. 

“No, I’m fine,” he manages, looking away as he says so. Van Gogh knows he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, but maybe Charlotte will sense he wants to be left alone and will let him go.

“Are you sure—“

“Yeah” His voice cracks a little. He can barely hold on. 

“Vincent, look at me.”

His eyes rest on Charlotte’s chin, knowing that making eye contact will break him. 

“You don’t have to talk, but I just want you to know I’m here for you. I’ll always be here, and nothing you tell me will change that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Van Gogh chokes out. 

“Okay, just making sure,” Charlotte says, and she steps away, letting Van Gogh walk to his room. 

Van Gogh walks to the stairs, but stops at the first one. _ Just get upstairs, his brain repeats to him, _ but his room is the last place he wants to be. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore today. Van Gogh hungers for the feeling of arms around him, the sound of a heartbeat nearby, and a voice whispering quiet assurances. In the face of this desire, he can’t ignore the living human being standing in the next room. 

His resolve for self-preservation crumbles in the face of his need for comfort, and he turns around to face his foster mom. Their eyes meet, and Van Gogh bursts into tears. 

“Oh honey,” Charlotte sighs, and Van Gogh runs into her open arms. 

They interlock in a tight embrace and sink to the tiled floor of the kitchen. Van Gogh clings to Charlotte desperately, tears wetting her blue dress shirt. Charlotte wraps her arms around her foster son, one on his back and the other stroking his unruly red hair. She doesn’t talk much, occasionally uttering soft words of comfort and opposition to Van Gogh’s constant repetition of the phrase “I’m so stupid”. 

The world around Van Gogh disappears. All that remains is him, the heartache, and the feeling of Charlotte’s arms around him. When the tears subside, he realizes that at some point they moved to the couch, and he’s resting on top of Charlotte, her arms still wrapped around him. 

He then goes on to explain everything: His jealousy of Catherine, his sneaking out to find Caesar, the poor results of his confession, his talk with Kennedy, his and Kennedy’s unlikely friendship, and the fight that caused Kennedy to leave. It is a scattered, incoherent explanation, but Charlotte listens nonetheless.

“I-I didn’t mean to upset him,” Van Gogh says, sniffing.

“No, you didn’t. He’s most likely got his own insecurities related to his clone father, and he’s just lashing out because of them,” Charlotte posits, stroking her son's hair, “either way, it was a dick move.”

Van Gogh laughs weakly at his foster mom’s crudeness.

“I’ll tell you what. How about you take a day off from school, I take a day off from work, and we both stay here and relax for the day. We can watch chick flicks and eat popcorn and cuddle. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that,” Van Gogh answers quietly, “thank you.”

“No problem, but you need to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you’ll be honest and tell me when something’s wrong. I want to know what’s actually going on in your life, not just what you think I want to hear. You don’t need to worry about bothering me or upsetting me or anything like that. I’m here for you, and I always will be. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

The tires on the red convertible squeal as Kennedy speeds down the road, foot pressing on the accelerator. He darts between cars and commits a variety of traffic violations, but he doesn’t care. The only thing going through his mind right now is the incident at the cafe. Kennedy grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

“Who does Van Gogh think he is,” Kennedy growls, “assuming I’m some sissy sad sack just because I’m nice to him! I wouldn’t’ve been nice to him if I knew he’d say somethin’ like that!” 

But a pang of remorse quells his anger when he pictures Van Gogh’s confused and broken-hearted expression, tears falling from his wide eyes. Kennedy relaxes a little. Maybe he was too harsh on the guy. He was just voicing his thoughts after all. He didn’t know what he was saying.

But that’s the exact problem. Van Gogh  _ did  _ know what he was saying. Kennedy had indeed been acting a lot softer around him. He hadn’t said anything truly means to anyone, he’d engaged in deep and emotional conversations, hell, even his Boston accent hadn’t been as strong. 

“Van Gogh’s made ya soft,” he says in the mirror, “that’s not the real you.”

But if it wasn't the real him, then why did he feel so comfortable around Van Gogh? Why did being around Van Gogh feel like he was letting go of the breath he had been holding for years? If he really was a manly, womanizing jock, then why did he enjoy hanging out with the only person who didn’t expect him to act like that? 

Kennedy threw open the door to his house and stormed inside, not bothering to hide his emotions. He ignores his foster fathers’ greetings and makes a bee-line for the bathroom. 

The door locks with a click. Kennedy grips the edges of the white porcelain sink. His eyes get all watery.  _ Don’t cry, you’re not a little girl, _ he thinks to himself, trying to blink away the tears, but they won’t leave.

Maybe it wasn’t Van Gogh who’s made him soft. Maybe he’s always been soft. Ever since he was old enough to learn about the original JFK, he’s been emulating his personality, or at least what he believed his personality to be. He’s always tried to be strong, brave, and always interested in sex, but maybe that isn’t who he is. 

Kennedy looks up at his reflection. Strands of hair have fallen loose from his style, and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize himself. His breathing quickens. If he’s not like the original Kennedy, then who is he? 

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. 

“Baby, it’s me,” Wally says through the door, “Is everything alright.”

Kennedy would normally scream at his foster dad to leave him alone, but he shocks both himself and Wally when he unlocks the door. Wally notices Kennedy’s watery eyes and anxious expression.

“Oh baby, what’s wrong?”

“Dad,” Kennedy begins, “do you think I’m doin’ a good job bein’ the clone of the JFK?”

Wally is silent for a moment, but places his hand on his foster son’s shoulder and says, “Baby, I think you’re doing a fantastic job, but you shouldn’t worry about being like JFK. You’re your own person with your own passions. Don’t waste your life trying to be something you don’t wanna be.”

Kennedy relaxes. His foster dad is right. He’s tired of being the manly, womanizing jock. He wants to be himself. He wants to be free. At this thought, he can’t help but think of the only person he feels free around. Kennedy smiles. He really wants to be Van Gogh’s friend.  _ I really need to apologize to him.  _


	7. The Cross Country Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their fight at the Cafe, Kennedy and Van Gogh continue to avoid each other until they are forced to attend a Cross Country race together.

Van Gogh enjoys his lazy weekend with his foster mom. They spend three days on the couch watching sappy chick flicks and eating take out. It’s fittingly pathetic, but Van Gogh doesn’t care. He gets some much needed time off and gets to bond with his mom, and that’s what really matters. When Monday rolls around, Van Gogh decides to return to school, and while he's not excited, he has a Cross Country meet today that he knows he can’t miss. He gets up, gets ready, and says goodbye to his mom, promising that he’ll call if something goes wrong. 

He doesn’t need to though. The day goes relatively smoothly. At this point, his bullies have moved on from teasing him about his crush on Caesar and are now patronizing Abe Lincoln for something that happened last Friday. What Abe did, Van Gogh will probably never know. It’s not like he has any friends to tell him. 

Van Gogh spends most of the day avoiding Kennedy at all costs. Every time he catches a glimpse of the jock, his heart breaks all over again. For the most part, he succeeds. They only have one class together, and Van Gogh sits in front of Kennedy so Van Gogh doesn’t have to see him. 

Although he got lucky in terms of class schedules, there is still the unavoidable matter of today’s Cross Country Meet. Van Gogh and Kennedy are two out of six people on the team, which means two hours of guilty pangs and longing stares. 

The team hovers around their foldable canopy, waiting for the race to start. Van Gogh tries to do his homework during this time. A cold breeze rattles the pages of his Pre-Calc textbook, but his pre-meet nervousness numbs him to the weather. As he tries to transform parabolas, Van Gogh can’t help but cast sidelong glances at Kennedy, who’s chatting with the coach. Van Gogh has noticed that the jock isn’t as loud and distracting as he usually is. He’s not throwing water at the other players or making comments about the girls on the other team. He’s quiet and down to earth. Sometimes, Van Gogh even catches Kennedy looking his way.

He looks down at his parabolas, but they are the farthest thing from his mind. He wonders if he should apologize to Kennedy. Maybe Kennedy calmed down. Maybe he wants to fix things, and those stares are proof.  _ No, you’re being stupid, as usual, _ Van Gogh thinks to himself,  _ if he didn’t want to talk to you then, why would he talk to you now? _

They continue the song and dance of trying to discreetly stare at one another until Charlotte arrives at the field.

“Hey Vinny,” she says, refraining from using any truly embarrassing nicknames.

“Hey, mom.”

“You nervous?”

“As always.”

“You’re gonna do great. Just find your pace and don’t walk,” Charlotte says, kissing him on the forehead. She stands above in silence watching the rest of the team as they make fools of themselves. After a few minutes, she leans down, and discreetly asks, “Which one’s Kennedy.”

“Mom-”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” Charlotte promises, “I just wanna know.”

Van Gogh rolls his eyes and reluctantly points in front of him at Kennedy.

“Oh,” Charlotte remarks disapprovingly, “he looks like a Kennedy. Should I go and-”

“Go back to the bleachers mom!”

“Alright, alright,” Charlotte says, holding her hands up in defense, “love you.”

“Love you too.”

Charlotte walks away to the side of the field to stand by the other spectators. Van Gogh returns to his homework, but only gets a little bit done before it’s time to stretch. The team warms up for the race, Kennedy and Van Gogh doing so as far away from each other as possible, and afterward, it’s time to begin.

The six members of Clone High line up with the other schools. That familiar feeling of dread washes over Van Gogh as he gets ready to start the race. He looks to his side and realizes he’s right next to Kennedy. Standing so close to him causes memories from Wednesday afternoon to resurface, and Van Gogh can no longer contain himself. He wants to fix things with Kennedy so badly.

“K-Kennedy,” he begins.

The jock whips around and stares down at the artist. His mouth hangs ajar and his face is red. His eyes are wide with anticipation. It’s almost frightening to see him so flustered.

“Yeah?” Kennedy asks breathlessly.

Van Gogh’s face burns as he forgets what he’s about to say. His heart hammers in his chest. He tries to look at Kennedy but finds it hard. After what feels like an eternity, he finds his words.

“Kennedy I’m-”

“Out of the way fag,” Dean Martin butts Van Gogh out of the way and moves to stand by Kennedy. Disappointment cuts through him, and he takes a few steps away from the pair. Of course. Of course, this would happen. Van Gogh spends the whole day staring longingly at Kennedy, wanting desperately to repair their friendship, and when he finally musters up the courage, some asshole comes in and ruins his chance. Tears fill his eyes. He just never wins, huh?

“Runners! On your mark. . .Get Set. . .” 

A gunshot is fired. Van Gogh barely registers the race has begun. He simply starts running when everyone else does, the familiar sounds of thundering feet and the cheering parents barely audible over his own thoughts. 

The runners’ loop around the track before descending into the woods. As they make their way along the track, Van Gogh feels himself slowing down. He sees the other runners passing him as he falls further and further behind, until he is at the very end of the group. 

He runs, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other, his mind occupied by Kennedy. Why should Van Gogh try to apologize? Kennedy was right. Kennedy will always be popular, and Van Gogh will always be an outcast. Even if he does want to make up with Van Gogh, Kennedy will always have his other friends. He’ll always have his girls. There will always be Dean Martins who push Van Gogh away from Kennedy. 

These thoughts consume him as he runs by what the team calls the ravine. It’s exactly what it sounds like: a large ditch with steep sides that the trail goes around. Van Gogh is so occupied by his own thoughts that when he should be turning, he continues to go straight. He only notices too late that he’s headed toward the edge when his foot snags on a root. His stomach twists in horror as he trips and sails clean over the edge. There’s the gut-wrenching feeling of falling. The ground gets closer. Van Gogh braces himself and lands on his right foot. His leg bends hard and a jolt of pain shoots up it. He lets out a cry and falls to the rocky ground. The pain is unbearable. The forest starts spinning, spots invade his vision, and everything fades to black. 

***

“Van Gogh! Van Gogh! Can you hear me?”

Van Gogh wakes to the sound of someone speaking to him. He tries to move, but there’s a sharp ache in his leg and he winces, tears roll down his cheek. 

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” someone says. He feels a hand rest on his head, patting it in an attempt to comfort him. He opens his eyes. His vision is blurred, but he can see the vague silhouette of his rescuer outlined in the haze of the afternoon sun. “Did you hurt yourself?” they ask. 

“My leg. . .” Van Gogh whimpers. 

“Your leg hurts?”

He nods. A hand moves to his face and gently wipes his tears away. “Hang in there, buddy. I’m gonna get you back to the field.”

Van Gogh feels a pair of strong arms lift him off the ground, and they begin moving. He continues to cry, his rescuer shushing him as they trek through the woods. 

A few minutes pass when Van Gogh hears a pair of footsteps approaching. His rescuer stops.

“Officer! I found him, this is him,” his rescuer says.

“Thank you, son. We’ll take it from here,” someone replies, presumably the officer. 

“Something’s wrong with his leg.”

“It is?”

“Yes, he’s talking about how his leg is hurting.”

The officer speaks again, but it’s muffled as Van Gogh’s vision grows spotty. One of the officers takes him, and Van Gogh blacks out again as he tries to mumble a thank you to the person who found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter title: Van Gogh fucking breaks his leg
> 
> Also, I used to run on the Cross Country team, and lining up at the start line always made me hella nervous so writing this chapter gave me major PTSD.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback. I enjoyed all of it, even the debate about Caesar's sexuality.


	8. An Overdue Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh's leg is broken, and Kennedy continues to search for ways to apologize to his friend.

Van Gogh was rushed to hospital following the accident. Upon a few x-rays and examinations, it was determined that he had suffered a greenstick fracture in the tibia, although Kennedy has no idea what that means. 

Kennedy had been the first person to find Van Gogh. When the boy hadn’t crossed the finish line after fifty minutes, they sent out a search party. While the rest of the team made jokes about how he was probably sucking someone off in the woods, Kennedy snuck away and joined the efforts. He found Van Gogh lying in the ravine, unconscious. When he went to pick Van Gogh up, he came to and started crying. Kennedy did his best to console him and figure out what was wrong, but all the while his hands were shaking, and he couldn’t help but think that this was all his fault. He got halfway back to the field with Van Gogh when a pair of officers approached him and took the injured boy off his hands.

The next day, Mr. Sheepman shares the news of Van Gogh’s injury in homeroom while a disinterested class and an anxious Kennedy listen. “As a result of his injuries, Van Gogh will be out for at most four weeks,” Mr. Sheepman continues, “so he’ll need someone to bring him his assignments for class. If anyone would like to take that responsibility, please let me know.”

And that request for volunteers is what led Kennedy to his current situation, walking down to Van Gogh’s house with an arm full of textbooks. He’s not alone, however. He’s with Principal Scudworth, who is holding. . .a fruit basket? 

“So, uh, do you mind telling me why you have that?” Kennedy asks, pointing to the basket.

“It’s a peace offering, so Miss Herring doesn’t seek penance for Van Gogh’s injury,” Scudworth answers.

“You mean she’d want to sue ya?”

“Oh, I WISH she would sue me,” Scudworth exclaims, “if I told you half the things she’s done to me, you’d rethink your decision to bring Van Gogh his assignments.”

Kennedy swallows hard. He wonders if Van Gogh has told Miss Herring about their argument at the cafe.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, they reach Van Gogh’s house. It’s a quaint little townhouse with lush potted plants decorating the exterior. Scudworth and Kennedy walk up the sidewalk and knock on the front door. 

There’s the sound of shattering glass, and a loud “SHIT!” can be heard from inside. A few moments later, the door opens. 

“What!?” yells a woman in a blue dress shirt and mom jeans. The wine glass in her hand is almost completely shattered, but she drinks from it anyway.

“Your lip is bleeding,” Kennedy says.

“Yeah what else is new.” 

Her tone is hostile and her eyes are narrowed, but her face lights up when she sees Scudworth. “Cinnamon! What a pleasant surprise! Aw! You brought me a fruit basket!”

Charlotte drops her broken wine glass on the floor and takes the gift. “Almost makes me forget that my son broke his leg on YOUR Cross Country course!” 

“Yeah. . .” Scudworth says, “anyways, I came here as an escort to this young fellow, who has graciously offered to provide Van Gogh with his assignments for the next few weeks.”

Charlotte looks to Kennedy, and he feels his skin prickle under her harsh gaze. She glares at him for upwards of five minutes before finally relinquishing.

“He’s up in his room,” Charlotte says, stepping aside to let Kennedy enter. 

“Thanks, ma’am,” he says, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Kennedy avoids Charlotte’s stare of death and steps inside.

The house has a serene peace to it. Plants rest on window sills and bookshelves. Nick nacks, modern art pieces, and books of all varieties line floating shelves, and a grand piano sits in the living room next to the TV. The whole place screams liberal arts major, but Kennedy doesn’t force himself to feel annoyed. He kind of likes it. 

Kennedy walks down the hall and peers into the rooms. All along the walls are beautiful paintings, and Kennedy finds himself slowing down so he can look at each one.  _ Did Van Gogh do all of these? _ Kennedy wonders, _ they look really good. _

He stops at a door that has been painted to look like The Starry Night. This must be it. Kennedy takes a deep breath, suddenly growing very nervous. What if Van Gogh is still upset? What if he doesn’t want to see him? Kennedy shakes these thoughts from his mind. He should at least try to talk to Van Gogh. What more does he have to lose?

Kennedy knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Van Gogh’s voice answers. 

Kennedy pushes open the door. He sees Van Gogh lying on his bed, phone in hand and cast bound leg propped up on a pillow. He looks up from his phone and his eyes go wide when he realizes who is visiting. 

“Kennedy?” Van Gogh sits up quickly, eyebrows knitting together in confusion, “what are you doing here?”

_ To tell you I’m sorry, _ is what Kennedy wants to say, but he ends up staring at his shoes and answering lamely: “I, uh, I volunteered ta bring you each day's assignments until you come back to school. Today I brought the-”

“Look, Kennedy,” Van Gogh interrupts him, pausing as he tries to find the right words, “I’m sorry. That day at the cafe, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, I’m the one who needs to apologize,” Kennedy interrupts. 

“What do you m-” Van Gogh starts, but Kennedy shushes him.

“I overreacted. When you said that I wasn’t like my clone father, I, I got nervous. I always really tried to be like him and when you said that it. . .it made me feel like I wasn’t doin’ a good job of livin’ up ta him, or at least my idea of him. But then I realized that I shouldn’t be worried about bein’ like the original JFK, I should just be myself.”

Van Gogh stares blankly at Kennedy, mouth ajar at the apology. Kennedy continues, “So, um, I’m really sorry. I don’t think you’re sad or pathetic. It’s quite the opposite actually. I think you’re very smart and kind and. . .and sympathetic. I know I said some awful things but, I hope you can forgive me.”

Kennedy looks up at Van Gogh. The artist smiles at him.

“Of course I forgive you, and I think you’re really cool too.”

An uncontrollable smile forms on Kennedy’s face. “So, does this mean we’re cool? Are we friends again?”

Van Gogh smiles back. “Of course we are.”


	9. Bedroom Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh and Kennedy have a heartfelt discussion about some traumatic memories.

From then on out, Kennedy comes to Van Gogh’s house every afternoon to deliver each day's assignments. He then stays over for an hour or so to help explain them to Van Gogh. It’s through these daily visits that the pair forms an unlikely bond, and they grow increasingly comfortable with each other. Van Gogh learns to trust Kennedy, despite his social status, and comes to consider him a good friend. 

On one particular afternoon, Van Gogh and Kennedy are discussing an English assignment when Van Gogh interrupts the explanation.

“I wanna give you something,” he says to Kennedy. Although he’s getting more comfortable with Kennedy, he finds himself avoiding Kennedy’s eyes as he says this.

“I’m kinda scared, shortstack,” Kennedy responds in regards to Van Gogh’s evasive behavior, “what is it?”

Van Gogh wordlessly reaches into his drawer, retrieves a small wrapped package, and hands it to Kennedy. 

“Is this Christmas wrapping paper?”

“Oh hush!” Van Gogh exclaims, getting impatient, “that’s all we had. Just open it!” 

Kennedy tears through the paper, opens the box, and gasps.

“It’s amazing! . .What is it?” he asks in awe. 

“It’s a worm on a string,” Van Gogh says, “I make them for all of my friends. See, it’s red and white like your sweater. Do you like it?”

Kennedy picks up the worm gently, eyes wide. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Van Gogh giggles at Kennedy’s reaction, a warm feeling growing in his stomach. Kennedy shoots him a knowing look. “So this means we're friends.”

“Of course, silly! I already told you we’re friends!”

“Yeah, but it’s nice to have that confirmation,” Kennedy says, flashing him a charming, Colgate white smile. 

Van Gogh giggles and feels his cheeks grow hot. Kennedy laughs too.

“You’re so easy to fluster,” he remarks, ruffling Van Gogh’s hair. 

“Whatever,” Van Gogh diverts, “what was the English assignment again?”

Kennedy still has that shit-eating grin on his face, but he opens his English folder anyway and hands Van Gogh the rubric for their upcoming essay.

“You’re supposed to write about a happy memory of you and your foster parents,” Kennedy explains. 

“I see.”

“Yeah, they’re doing this whole Parent Appreciation Exhibition next week and they want to display the best essays during that. I’m guessing it’s motivation to recruit foster parents for the newest clones.”

“Interesting,” Van Gogh remarks, taking out a sheet of paper to write some ideas down. “Most of my happy memories with my mom involve shoplifting wine and ice cream from the local Walmart. I’m guessing that’s not what they’re looking for. What are you gonna write about?”

“Oh, uh,” Kennedy pauses for a moment, “I was, uh, thinking about writing about the time when my foster dads took me to the planetarium.”

“Planetarium?” Van Gogh looks back at Kennedy, bewildered.

“Yeah, yeah. I know it’s odd, but. . .” Kennedy pauses again, smoothing back his hair, “I’m actually really into studying space, you know. Like astrology and stuff?”

“Oh.”

“I know it’s dumb, but-”

“No no!” Van Gogh assures him, “I think it’s really cool, actually. It was just unexpected, that’s all. I’m actually really interested in the stars and constellations as well. I’ve got a few books on the subject if you ever want to borrow them.”

“Really?” Kennedy exclaims, smiling, “That’s so cool of you, shortstack!”

“Don’t mention it,” Van Gogh says, turning back to his work, “did your parents like stars too, or did you just develop that interest on your own?”

“No, they’re not really into space. They just took me there to make me happy after. . .” Kennedy trails off, swallows audibly, and tries to continue, “my clone history day.”

The tone shifts from light and carefree to heavy the instant Clone History Day is brought up. “Kennedy. . .” Van Gogh says, turning to his friend in shock. He’d forget all about their Clone History Days. Towards the end of Clone Kindergarten, each Clone was pulled aside by Dr. Scudworth for a special Clone History Day, where he’d teach them all about the life of their predecessor. Van Gogh shudders as he remembers Dr. Scudworth’s less than kind explanation of his father’s mental illness. He can only imagine what it must’ve been like for Kennedy.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Van Gogh says.

“No I. . .I kind of want to, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Kennedy shifts in his chair, trying to recall the exact events of that fateful day. “I was playing with some trains when Scudworth called me back. He told me I was going to have a special lesson today, and he spent the entire day telling me about the original JFK, how great he was, how well-loved he was, all the things he did for this country, etc. I was ecstatic. I was so proud to be the clone of such a cool guy, and then they set me down in front of the TV. They put in this tape, and it was of him. He was smiling and waving. I sat there, mesmerized, and then, just seconds later he. . .his head. . .it-”

“Kennedy, it’s alright. I understand.” Van Gogh says. Kennedy clears his throat and begins again.

“I had nightmares for weeks. I was so traumatized. So my dads decided to take me to the Planetarium thinking it would help me calm down, and it actually did help. I was so excited about seeing the planets and stars that I forgot all about the Zapruder film.” 

“God, that’s awful,” Van Gogh says, “I’m so sorry. If it’s any consolation, my Clone History Day was shitty too.”

“What happened during yours,” Kennedy asked. 

“Well, they didn’t show me a video of my dad shooting himself, but Dr. Scudworth had a less than delicate explanation of my father’s mental health issues. He said that the original Van Gogh was a deranged man who died sad and alone, and that scared me. I guess I believed I was destined for the same fate.”

“Damn, that’s tough,” Kennedy concurs, “Scudworth is an asshole.”

“Damn straight.”

***

Kennedy returns home that night in the late afternoon. He waves to his parents and walks upstairs, getting ready to do homework. He’s never spoken to anyone about the Zapruder film incident. Although it was traumatic, it was nice to talk about his feelings out with someone. Van Gogh is actually a pretty cool guy.

Kennedy opens his backpack to retrieve his homework, but he discovers another book that did not belong to him. He pulled it out. It was a copy of Andrew Chaikins’ “A Man on the Moon.” A note was on the cover, written in neat handwriting:

_ In light of our conversation, I thought you might enjoy this. Love what you love and don’t be ashamed. -V _

Kennedy smiled. He put the note by his desk. Yeah, Van Gogh is a pretty cool guy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our bois are back to being buddies, but you’d be a fool if you think this would spare our beloved protagonists from the ANGST. I know that Clone High is just a tongue-in-cheek sitcom, but part of me wishes there was a more serious version of the same premise because the implications of being the genetic clone of a famous historical figure are very interesting (especially ones with tragic lives). All throughout this fic, we’ve been looking at Kennedy and Van Gogh’s desires to live up to their clone fathers’ reputations, but it was interesting to explore another aspect of their situation: the trauma that might result from learning of the tragic events surrounding their fathers. 
> 
> . . .Also, I headcanon that Kennedy has a space obsession. This is not up for debate. My word is law.


	10. A Warm Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Van Gogh and Kennedy's friendship deepens, Van Gogh begins to feel strange things for his new friend

“No, no, no! When you move the baby number over, it looks like this!” Kennedy says, pointing to a formula scribbled onto his notes.

“Are you sure,” Van Gogh asks, hand on his chin as he stares at the logarithmic function, “that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s math! It’s not supposed to make any sense!!”

“Kennedy, that’s not true. Let’s check the book again,” Kennedy groans as Van Gogh flips through the pages of his Pre-Calc textbook. He stops at the day's lesson and scans the page. 

“Ah-ha!” Van Gogh exclaims, finger landing on the diagram of a logarithmic function, “that’s why it didn’t make sense! The ‘log’ sign disappears when you move the exponents up.”

“What?! Are you serious!?” Kennedy leans over and looks at the diagram, and lets out an exasperated sigh, “Well that doesn’t make any sense either!!”

Van Gogh laughs, and Kennedy sticks out his tongue at him.

“Oh, Kennedy, you are positively juvenile!” Van Gogh remarks in his poshest, most pretentious voice. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a-” Kennedy begins, but his vocabulary is far less impressive than Van Gogh’s, so he just says, “you’re a nerd!”

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. “How witty.”

“Whatever!” Kennedy yells, “I’m calling it a day! Sorry I’m not worthy of your AB Honor Roll status*!”

Van Gogh laughs, but his mood is dampened when he sees Kennedy packing up his things. 

“Kennedy?”

Kennedy slings his book bag onto his shoulder and turns to face Van Gogh. “Yeah?”

“You know I’m only kidding, right?”

“Of course,” Kennedy assures him, “but it is nice to hear you say so.”

Van Gogh punches Kennedy lightly in the arm. Kennedy lets out a fake ow, but grows serious and adds.

“I’m sorry I’m not the best at this whole math thing, you know. It’d probably be a lot easier for you to learn from someone else.”

“No, Kennedy,” Van Gogh says, putting a hand on his friend's arm and looking into his eyes, “you’re doing fantastic. I wouldn’t want anyone else helping me with math.”

“Thank you, Van Gogh,” Kennedy says, “that, uh, really means a lot.”

The conversation changes pace. There’s a distinct charge in the air. They stare at one another for a moment, both reeling from the weight of Van Gogh’s admission. Suddenly, Kennedy leans forward and wraps his arms around Van Gogh in a tight embrace. Van Gogh is caught off guard at first, but quickly returns the gesture, holding onto his friend tightly. It’s a bit strange at first. They’ve never engaged in any physical affection at all, but whether that’s due to a lack of interest or a fear of the other’s reaction is debatable. They hug for what feels like a long time, but when Kennedy finally lets go it feels way too short. Van Gogh wants to pull his best friend back, but he suppresses the urge. He just says a quiet goodbye and watches him leave the house.

For the rest of the night, Van Gogh can’t stop thinking about that hug, although not by choice.  _ It was just a hug. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re thinking about him too much. You’ve gotta stop. _ These are the things he repeats to himself all through the night, but they do nothing. Kennedy remains in his head from dinner, to sitting by his mom on the couch, to showering, and to laying in his bed with the lights off, haunting him with the soft, fuzzy memories of their embrace. 

Eventually, Van Gogh decides that painting will help take his mind off of Kennedy. He gets up from bed and hobbles over to his desk as quietly as possible. He squirts dabs of red, yellow, and blue onto his pallet, and is immediately reminded of the first afternoon he and Kennedy spent together, during which Van Gogh taught him a little about color theory. He remembers how Kennedy had leaned in close to him. How he could smell his hairspray and cologne. Van Gogh mixes a few colors together, recalling how Kennedy’s grey-green eyes focused on him. On only him. How his lips curled into a slight frown in concentration. If only Kennedy had leaned in a little closer and pressed those lips to. . .

Van Gogh feels his face heat up, banishing the thought instantly. No! He shouldn’t be thinking about his friend like that. He looks down at his pallet, and there, mixed form the pools of blue, yellow, white, and black, is that oh so familiar greenish-grey.

The pallet clatters to the floor.

_ Oh shit. I’m in love with John F. Kennedy. _

Instant panic sets in. _ No no no. You’re not. You’re not. You can’t be. You’ll get hurt. You cannot fall in love with your best friend. _ But he already has. There’s no point in denying it. There’s no point in stopping it. He pictures Kennedy in his mind. He sees his smile, hears his laugh, and feels his arms around him. These sensations beckon him to let go, to relinquish control, to not fight it, and he cannot resist their inviting pleads. 

Van Gogh returns to his bed, exhaling and allowing himself to fall down, down, down. His senses have left him. All that remains is the warm, tumultuous feeling in his stomach. Whether this feeling is fear or affection Van Gogh is not sure. He is only sure of one thing: that he loves Kennedy. He loves every last bit of his dorky, horny, dumb friend. 

Van Gogh smiles.  _ I am in love with my best friend, and that’s okay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooohooooo! Finally, halfway through this godforsaken fanfic, we get to the ✨romance✨. I’d like to thank all of you knuckleheads for sticking it out and patiently suffering through this oh so slow burn fic. It only gets juicer from here on out, though, so please continue reading


	11. Return to School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Van Gogh returns to school, Kennedy must confront his homophobic friends about his new companion. 
> 
> Warning: Features homophobia and slurs. Also homophobic Caesar (people seemed to be pretty upset about his last appearance)

Weeks pass, and fall descends upon the town of Exclamation! at full force. The days get shorter, the cool air turns frigid, and the leaves turn passionate shades of red, orange and yellow. 

During this transition, Van Gogh has remained at home, healing from his injury. Kennedy continues visiting Van Gogh each day, bringing with him the day's assignments. He has tackled this task with unparalleled steadfastness and vigor, determined to best assist Van Gogh while he recovers. Kennedy’s been paying close attention in class, taking good notes, and occasionally asking a teacher for help when he doesn’t understand something. Not only has Van Gogh benefited from this diligence, but Kennedy has also noticed an improvement in his grades. Who knows, maybe he might make AB honor roll this quarter.

Although he and Van Gogh are good students, they have a bad habit of rushing through their work so that they have more time to hang out. This time is spent mostly on conversations as Van Gogh paints. The topics range from silly debates on what a particular musician’s best song is to deep, existential discussions about the moral implications of being a clone of a famous historical figure. Although Kennedy never thought he was suited for intelligent discussion, pondering on deep matters makes him feel as though he’s transcended the skin-deep world and unlocked a new, infinitely more interesting spiritual one. He loves it. He loves every damn second of his time with Van Gogh. If you had asked him a month ago, he never would have believed that Van Gogh was so talented, intelligent, and engaging. He’s truly proud to be the close friend of the young artist. 

However, the more time he spends with Van Gogh, the less enchanted he is by the juvenile chatter of his popular friends. He can hardly be blamed. After having discussions about the meaning of life, it’s hard to go back to arguing about which girl in the senior class has the biggest tits. Nowadays, Kennedy finds himself hanging back during such conversations or just avoiding them all together. As a result, a social barrier develops between him and his friend group. They slowly stop inviting him out, stop talking to him in conversations, and stop waiting for him after practice. Kennedy doesn’t notice this alienation, but there is a moment that he realizes that it’s time he parted ways with his popular friends.

It occurs four weeks after Van Gogh’s injury. Following a visit to the doctor, his cast is switched out for a boot and he’s given the all clear to return to school. The day of his return, Kennedy was standing by the entrance to school with Henry Rathbone, Julius Caesar, and Rock Hudson. Their conversation is shallow as usual, but Kennedy perks up when his artistic friend becomes the main subject. 

“Isn’t that artsy fartsy-freak coming back today?” Rock Hudson asks

“Yeah, what a pansy!” Rathbone jeers, and Hudson and Caesar laugh dumbly at the slur, but Kennedy breaks his silence.

“Don’t call him that,” he grumbles, and the group suddenly quiets, not out of compliance, but rather shock. 

“Why not?” Rathbone says, “we know you've been delivering his assignments. Has he got you batting for the other team now?”

Caesar and Hudson snicker, and Kennedy feels his face get hot.

“No,” he retorts, smoothing back his hair, “It’s just not nice.”

Everyone laughs. “Since when did you care about being nice, Kennedy?”

Kennedy gets quiet and moves to slump against the brick wall.

“Hey Caesar,” Hudson begins, “you remember that time at JFK’s party when Van Gogh told you he liked you in front of your girlfriend.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me of it, Hudson,” Caesar groans, “it was disgusting. I’m glad I cut ties with him.”

This rouses Kennedy from his silence. He sits up and turns to face his friend. “How could you say something like that, Caesar,” Kennedy demands, “you and Van Gogh had been friends since clone kindergarten! How could you just throw away your friendship like that?”

“Yes, yes it did hurt a bit,” Caesar admitted, “but imagine the kind of teasing I’d have gotten if I’d remained friends with a guy who had a crush on me. Imagine what Catherine would’ve thought! It had to be done.”

“You made a good choice, Caesar,” Rathbone admitted, and that was the final straw for Kennedy.

He slams his fist onto a nearby bike rack, causing everyone to jump. “You’re all terrible!” he yells, and stomps off. 

“You’ve been hangin’ around too many pansies, JFK,” Rathbone calls as Kennedy walks away, “you’ve gone soft.”

Kennedy stops for a minute, the word soft hitting a nerve, causing those nasty feelings of inadequacy to resurface.  _ You’re not the person you’re supposed to be, _ a voice tells him, but he shakes it off. It doesn’t matter if he supposed to agree with Caesar’s actions or laugh at Van Gogh. What matters is what is right, and that means standing up for his friend.

Kennedy turns around, but not to rejoin Hudson, Rathbone and Caesar, but to meet up with Van Gogh, who has just arrived at school. 

“Hey shortstack,” he greets playfully. Van Gogh looks surprised, but he smiles and says hi back anyways, and they walk to homeroom together. 

They don’t have many classes together, but their lunch periods do coincide. Instead of sitting with his friends, Kennedy takes his lunch and goes to find Van Gogh.

Kennedy knows Van Gogh doesn’t eat in the cafeteria, but he has a pretty good idea where he might be. Most of the outcasts eat lunch on a brick wall by the left side of the school. Kennedy knows because he’s gone there with friends to bully some of the loners once or twice. He cringes at the memory.

Kennedy finds Van Gogh sitting a few paces from the wall, leaning against it with his back to Kennedy.

“Uh, do you mind if I sit here?” he asks.

Van Gogh whips around and an uncontrollable smile spreads across his face. Kennedy’s heart warms and the sight of it. 

“Sure,” he says, and scoots over to let Kennedy sit beside him. 

“Does it feel good to be back?” Kennedy asks as they eat.

Van Gogh shrugs. “It’s alright. Mainly I’m just glad to be out of my damn bed.”

“That’s good. I like your boot.”

Van Gogh laughs. “That’s a weird complement, but thanks. I’m actually thinking about painting on it? What do you think I should paint?” 

Kennedy puts his finger on his chin and thinks for a moment. “How about me. You could paint my face on your boot.”

“Why would I ever wanna do that?”

“Are you serious?? Who wouldn’t wanna see my face on their shoe everyday?”

Van Gogh bursts into laughter, leaning onto Kennedy’s shoulder as he snorts at the dumb joke. It’s contagious, and Kennedy finds himself laughing along too.

“This is fun,” Kennedy says, “I like eating lunch with you, shortstack.”

“Kennedy,” Van Gogh says, his voice unexpectedly serious, “You know you don’t have to spend all your time with me, right? You’ve got other friends, and I totally understand if you want to hang out with them.”

“No,” Kennedy answers, “my friends are a bunch of assholes who only think about sports and girls. I don’t want to be around people like that anymore. I’d much rather be around you.”

Van Gogh smiles, and Kennedy notices Van Gogh’s cheeks are a little pink. 

“I’m glad. I like being around you too.”


	12. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an old friend of Kennedy returns to school, Van Gogh gets jealous.

Kennedy and Van Gogh continue to spend time together. Their friendship deepens, and the more it does, the further Van Gogh falls helplessly in love with Kennedy. Every conversation, every knowing look, every single glance at Kennedy fuels the blazing fire in his soul. Every moment spent with him is euphoric, but, by far, his favorite moments are when he and Kennedy are alone in his quiet bedroom doing homework together, listening to music, laughing over stupid things or talking about deep, meaningful matters. It’s during these times that the real John F Kennedy begins to shine through. As the night stretches on, and his precarious beehive starts to topple from laughing too hard, the asshole jock façade chips away like a single coat of cheap nail polish. What lies beneath is real and beautiful. The way Kennedy talks is beautiful. The way Kennedy laughs is beautiful. Kennedy is just so incredibly beautiful. Van Gogh has never met someone who made him feel so happy, so delighted, and so loved. It feels like nothing can shake their bond. It’s just Van Gogh and Kennedy against the world.

And then Ponce de Leon returns. 

Ponce de Leon had signed up for the foreign exchange program in an effort to explore other worlds, and he was returning to Clone High for a few weeks. Van Gogh discovered this when he came to school and saw, much to his surprise, Kennedy speaking to Ponce by his car.

“Oh! Hey, short stack!” Kennedy greeted once he saw Van Gogh. “You remember Poncey right? He just came back from Spain!” Kennedy wraps an arm around Ponce as he speaks, and Van Gogh feels a needling sensation in his gut.

“Yeah, I do,” Van Gogh answers, “it’s good to see you again Ponce.”

“Good to see you too, Van Gogh,” Ponce says, taking Van Gogh’s hand and giving it a firm shake, “it’s cool to see you two are hanging out.”

Kennedy smiles, and the needling feeling returns when Van Gogh notices the color in his friend’s cheeks.

Throughout the day, Ponce and Kennedy are inseparable. They walk from class to class, spend all of break together, and partner together whenever the opportunity arises in class. Throughout the day, Van Gogh feels a familiar feeling resurfacing. It’s tedious and sharp, like someone has stabbed him in the gut and is twisting the knife in slow circles. It’s jealousy. Petty, hot jealousy.

_ It’s just like Catherine and Caesar, _ he thinks. Correction, it’s similar to Catherine and Caesar. Unlike Catherine, Van Gogh actually likes Ponce. Of course, he does. Everyone likes Ponce. Especially Kennedy.

Additionally, Catherine’s motivation to hang out with Caesar was obvious, but Ponce and Kennedy have been good friends since they were in diapers. Ponce isn’t trying to get together with Kennedy. Van Gogh is just jealous because he isn’t getting all of Kennedy’s attention.  _ You’re so desperate, _ he thinks to himself,  _ Kennedy has other friends too, you know, unlike you. _

So, out of guilt and a desire to be a good friend, Van Gogh holds his tongue and pretends like Kennedy’s attention to Ponce doesn’t bother him. It only truly becomes a problem when lunch period rolls around.

“Let’s sit in the lunchroom,” Ponce suggests, “I’d like to see more of my old friends.”

Van Gogh’s heart misses a beat. Eating in the lunchroom is a death sentence for people like him. Shouldn’t Ponce know this?

“Sounds good to me, Poncey,” Kennedy agrees delightedly in a way that makes the knife sink in deeper, “Is that alright with you, shortstack?”

Kennedy looks at Van Gogh, the smile on his face not unlike the one Caesar gave him all those weeks ago when he was asking if it was okay if Catherine took his seat. One that says, ‘please say yes’.

Disappointment sinks like a rock in Van Gogh’s stomach. “Sure,” he says, trying to sound as unbothered as possible, and the trio makes their way to the lunchroom. Kennedy falls back though, moves close to Van Gogh, and whispers in a soft voice, “Don’t worry. No one’s gonna hurt you while I’m there.”

The promise, in all of its gravely soft glory, makes Van Gogh’s knees weak. With a red face, he nods that he understands and they follow Ponce into the lunchroom.

The lunchroom is as loud as always, filled with chaotic teens doing stupid things. The three grab their respective lunches and, led by Ponce, move to find a table to sit at. Ponce walks coolly to a table where Joan of Arc and Gandhi are sitting.

“Hey, can we sit here,” he asks them. They nod, and Ponce, Kennedy, and Van Gogh take their seats.

The conversations, like all the others that have occurred throughout the day, consist mainly of Kennedy relaying the events of everyday life to Ponce while Ponce nods along adding in the occasional “that’s awesome man” or something like that. Gandhi, Joan, and Van Gogh mainly just listen. At first, it annoys Van Gogh, but he gets a shock when Kennedy starts talking about him. About how smart he is, how talented he is, and how delightful he is. Ponce nods with his cool, everything goes attitude, but Gandhi and Joan are absolutely floored. They exchange shocked glances with each other and with Van Gogh, who just shrugs nonchalantly, pretending his heart isn’t going haywire.

“Van Gogh is really, really smart too!” Kennedy remarks, “he’s been helping me with my math homework recently. I go over to his house and we work on it there.”

“Really?” Ponce says, looking at Van Gogh, “that’s really cool of you Van Gogh. I’ve actually been having a bit of trouble in math as well. If you have the time, could you show me how to do some things?”

Teaching his crush's best friend math is about the last thing Van Gogh wants to do just under breaking his leg again, but he forces a smile and says “Sure” in his most unbothered, cheerful voice.

“Thanks, man,” Ponce says, patting Van Gogh on the shoulder, “anyways, I’ve gotta split. There are still a few people I need to say hi to. Meet me after school in the library, Van Gogh?”

Van Gogh nods and he pretends not to be bothered by the look on Kennedy’s face as he watches Ponce leave.

***

Van Gogh walks to the library at school. Ponce is waiting for him in the back, his math book open. He looks up and sees Van Gogh and waves for him to sit with him.

“Thanks so much for coming Van Gogh,” Ponce says as the artist comes to sit by him, “I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Van Gogh says.

“I can see why Jack likes you so much.”

Van Gogh tries to suppress the smile that crosses his face, and says, “I really like Kennedy too. I didn’t expect to, but we’ve actually gotten really close lately.” He points to a diagram in the Pre-Calc book, but Ponce isn’t paying attention.

“I’ve never heard him talk about someone the way he talks about you.” Van Gogh’s heart skips a beat. He keeps his eyes on his Pre-Calc book, heart hammering in his chest.  _ Don’t let him know how you feel about Kennedy. _

“I’m sure that’s not true-“

“Van Gogh,” Ponce begins, suddenly serious, “Kennedy really,  _ really  _ likes you. In fact, I think he might be in love with you.”

Van Gogh’s heart jumps in his throat. “Please don’t tell Kennedy! I didn’t mean to! It just happened! I- wait. . .did you say  _ Kennedy  _ was in love with  _ me _ ?”

Ponce laughs lightly and Van Gogh’s face turns as red as his hair.

“It’s cool, Gogh. My lips are sealed,” Ponce says, patting his back, “but. . .if you really love Kennedy, you might have a good shot at getting with him.”

Van Gogh finally registers what Ponce has been saying. Kennedy might have a crush on him. Van Gogh is no longer in the library. He is falling through the sky all over again, heart pounding with the best kind of anxieties. Visions of dating Kennedy flood his mind at the mere possibility of his feelings being reciprocated.  _ Kennedy might like you. Kennedy might like you. Kennedy might like you. _ He presses the notion closer to his heart, determined to never let it go. It is the beacon of light that outshines the grim horrors of his difficult life. It is his religion. It is the very thing he eats and breathes. 

“Y-You think Kennedy might like me?” Van Gogh asks.

Ponce smiles warmly at him. “Absolutely.”

A lightbulb goes off in Van Gogh’s head. “You didn’t need help with math, did you?”

Ponce smiles mischievously. “Nope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy, yes, jealousy. . .will drive you. . .MAaAaAaaaAAAd
> 
> Ponce is the best tho.


	13. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh decides to tell Kennedy how he truly feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one thing to say about this chapter. . .
> 
> Buckle up bitches

Van Gogh’s talk with Ponce is nothing short of all consuming. For the first time in his entire life, there is a chance that someone he likes might be interested, and it’s Kennedy, the boy who has been the sole subject of his thoughts for the past few weeks. He might just have a chance. They might just have a chance. The notion is intoxicating, and he can’t help but indulge it. As is the case with these situations, Van Gogh tries to calm himself down. Maybe Ponce misread the signs. Maybe Kennedy just thinks he’s really cool and that’s it. What if he confesses his feelings and it ends up like another Caesar situation?

These doubts do nothing to sway Van Gogh. His desire for a relationship with Kennedy continues to grow, until Van Gogh cannot handle the idea of continuing being friends with him without sharing his feelings. He knows this is exactly how he ruined his friendship with Caesar, but Kennedy isn’t Caesar. Kennedy has proven time and time again that he won’t cave under the pressure to be popular. He’ll stand by Van Gogh, till the very end. Once again, Van Gogh’s heart is in someone's hands, but this time, he truly trusts in Kennedy.

So he makes plans the following night to tell Kennedy how he feels. 

His foster mom is out of the house, which means a full night of fun. They get their homework done, eat dinner, and sit in his room watching TV. Kennedy enjoys the night with ease, but Van Gogh is on edge the entire time, waiting for the right opportunity. The sun sets, and the pair ends up on Van Gogh’s bed watching Netflix. The light from the TV casts harsh shadows and highlights of pale blue onto the pair. Someone says something funny, and Kennedy throws back his head in laughter. His hair is a mess, his laugh is loud, and his sweater hangs loosely around his collar bones.

_ Everything about him begs to be kissed. _

It’s then, in the light of the TV on his bed, Van Gogh decides it’s time.

“Kennedy,” he begins, voice shaking. 

“Yeah,” Kennedy replies. His eyes are still on the television and he doesn’t seem to notice how nervous Van Gogh is. Van Gogh can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not. 

“I have something to tell you.”

Kennedy mutes the TV and turns to face Van Gogh. Van Gogh looks at his lap, hands shaking and breathing shallow. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more scared in his life.

“What’s up shortstack?” Kennedy asks, his voice is warm but also quiet. Even Kennedy can tell that something is up.

Van Gogh draws in a shaky breath and begins an explanation. 

“You’re a really good friend, and I’m so happy we can hang out and stuff. We’ve been hanging out a lot lately, a-and I feel like I need to-to tell you something really important, but I’m scared that you’ll- I’m scared that it’ll change the way you think of us. I don’t want to lose you, ‘cause you’re so fantastic and funny and sweet and I-”

“Van Gogh-”

“N-No, I’m not done yet,” Van Gogh insists weakly. He’s visibly shaking now, and his heart feels as though it’s going to burst, “the trouble is that I-”

“Van Go-”

“I-”

“Vincent.”

Van Gogh stops talking. A hand lifts his chin to meet Kennedy’s eyes. Kennedy’s smiling. It’s an all knowing, warm smile. Van Gogh’s breath catches in his throat. 

“J-John,” Van Gogh returns in response that is more exhale than word. His friend’s first name feels weird on his lips. 

Kennedy puts his hand on the back of Van Gogh’s neck and leans forward. Van Gogh shuts his eyes. There, in the presence of the moon and the stars, their lips meet. It is a soft, tender kiss, charged by uncertainty and nerves. It’s unlike anything either has ever felt before. The world disappears, and all that Van Gogh can feel is the gentle lips of his best friend and the hand on the back of his neck. 

They part reluctantly, and Van Gogh is still reeling.  _ He’s just kissed his best friend. _ Reality hits him like a ton of bricks, and panic consumes him.  _ What the hell did they just do?  _

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he says breathlessly, gripping Kennedy’s arms as he starts hyperventilating, “what is-what did we- oh-”

“Vincent?’

_ You can’t do this. You can’t be in a relationship with him. You’re too much trouble. _

“I can’t- we can’t- we-”

_ He’s going to leave you eventually. You’re going to end up all alone. Just like your father.  _

“Slow down-”

“No! No. . .” Van Gogh protests, still clinging to Kennedy, “we can’t do this! This won’t work!”

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m a burden,” Van Gogh says, “it’s hard to love me. I’ve got so many problems and I’m just-”

“You’re not a burden,” Kennedy insists.

“Yes I am,” Van Gogh argues

“But I love you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“You don’t know that-”

“No. I do,” Van Gogh says, “Believe me, I do. You’ll try to love me but I’ll just make it hard and you’ll leave and-”

“Vincent, Vincent, Vincent,” Kennedy says, cradling his crying friend to his chest. He is silent for a moment, trying to find the right words to say. Finally, he speaks up, “I’m never gonna leave you. I love you too much to do that. I know it’s hard, but you have to trust that my love will be enough.”

Tears fall down Van Gogh’s face, he looks up at Kennedy. “John, I’m scared.”

Kennedy’s crying as well. “I’m scared too.”

Van Gogh sits up on his knees. He presses his forehead to Kennedy’s.

“I trust you,” he says in a small voice. His uncertainty dissolves in his love and their lips meet again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you buckle up like I told you to, or are you sprawled out on the side of the highway 50 feet from your car?
> 
> Honestly, this was my favorite chapter to write, and I don’t think I need to explain why. We’re finally here! 13 chapters in and now we finally get a kiss!


	14. The Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh and Kennedy have their first date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. I’ve been on vacation and I haven’t had the opportunity to post.

John and Vincent spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms. They don’t sleep. They kiss, sit in silence, and talk until the sun comes up and Kennedy must reluctantly depart. 

They both agree to keep the relationship on the downlow for now. If people at school find out, then both of their lives will be living hell. Kennedy will lose all the friends he hasn’t lost already, and Van Gogh will find himself suffering the wrath of all the girls in school and Kennedy’s friends for “turning Kennedy gay”. It’s stupid, but intellignece is not common amongst the homophobic. Besides, why subject themselves to scrutiny if they’re not even sure of their relationship themselves?

So, they limit the PDA at school, only cuddling or kissing when they’re sure they’re alone. But at night, at night everything is fair game. In the light of the moon they hold each other and press their lips together till they can barely breath, saying I love you and listing the reasons why. The transition from friends to lovers is not awkward, but rather seamless. All it means is that they can now say the things they’ve always wanted to say to one another. There are no limits. No Shame. There is nothing they need to hide to keep things from getting weird. It’s just Van Gogh and Kennedy: Vincent and John in all their glory. 

A week passes, and Van Gogh begins to grow restless. He’s tired of confining their love to the dark corners of his bedroom. He wants to go somewhere with Kennedy, as a couple. So, one Friday afternoon, on a joyride on the backroads of Exclamation!, Van Gogh decides to ask Kennedy a question.

“John,” he begins, a sense of dèjá vu hitting him as he says his lover’s name.

“Yes sunflower,” Kennedy answers. His voice is like melted butter and he places a comforting hand on Vincent’s knee, signalling that he knows something is on his mind. His reaction distracts Van Gogh, and his original question immediately evaporates.

“Fuck!”

Kennedy bursts out laughing, nearly swerving off the road.

“You really know how to fluster a guy, don’t you Jack,” Van Gogh says, punching him lightly in the arm. 

“Yes, and you make it real easy too,” Kennedy snickers. Van Gogh pretends to be offended, crossing his arms and turning away. 

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” Kennedy coos, and Van Gogh falters, “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I’d like to go on a date,” Van Gogh doesn’t beat around the bush this time.

“Okay, where would you like to go,” Kennedy answers easily, keeping his hand where it is. Van Gogh is a little surprised. He expected push back or hesitance, but maybe Kenndy feels the same way. 

“There’s a sunflower field behind my house,” Van Gogh answers, “it’s beautiful this time of year. We should bring a picnic there.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” Kennedy says, “I wanted to go on a date too. I think this is a good start.”

The next day, Kennedy arrives at Van Gogh’s house. Van Gogh is in the kitchen loading up the picnic basket with the help of Charlotte. She takes sips directly from a bottle of chardonnay.

“You’re looking awfully cute today,” she says playfully, gesturing to his outfit: denim overalls that extend to his knee, a yellow t-shirt, and socks that come to the middle of his calves. 

“I thought I’d dress nice for once,” Van Gogh replies, too embarrassed to directly tell her he wanted to look nice for their date. Charlotte walks up and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Make good choices,” she whispers as she holds him.

“I am,” he assures her, “I will.”

With that, Van Gogh grabs the picnic basket, his messenger bag of art supplies, and his easel and steps out the door. 

Kennedy is leaning against his car. He’s dressed differently too. He’s wearing a white undershirt and a letterman jacket. He waves to Charlotte, who’s watching from the window, but she doesn’t return the gesture. 

Van Gogh walks up to Kennedy and they greet one another with a soft kiss.

“So, where is this magical sunflower field you talked about,” Kennedy asks, and Van Gogh flashes him a knowing smile. 

“I’ll show you,” Van Gogh says, outstretching his hand. 

Kennedy smiles and wraps his strong hand around Van Gogh’s. His stomach does flips. He’s so glad they can do this. 

Van Gogh leads Kennedy through the thick forest behind his house. They’re still holding hands as they navigate around gopher holes and crunch their way through dead leaves. Squirrels and songbirds watch them curiously, just as enamored and confused by the couple as John and Vincent are themselves. 

“Close your eyes,” Van Gogh says to Kennedy as they ascend a hill. 

“I’ll slip on the leaves and fall,” Kennedy protests.

“I’ll catch you.”

“You couldn’t catch a gallon of milk if it fell from the counter.”

Van Gogh snorts. “C’mon, don’t you trust me?”

Kennedy rolls his eyes and shuts them, “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Kennedy stumbles up the hill, Van Gogh’s hand the only thing he feels. After what feels like a thousand uncertain steps, the ground levels out. 

“Alright, you can open your eyes.”

Kennedy complies and his breath is taken away. The hill they are on is composed of soft, green grass. A single oak tree stands beside them, large branches stretching over their heads, protecting them from the rest of the world. Below them is the aforementioned field of sunflowers stretching endlessly toward the horizon. 

“D-Do you like it?” 

“I can’t see any houses,” Kennedy says, voice soft with wonder that if he were to talk at a normal volume he might miss something incredible. “It’s like we’re the only ones out here.”

Van Gogh smiles, stands on his toes and kisses Kennedy softly.

“Well, I’m starving, let’s eat,” Van Gogh remarks. 

Kennedy spreads out their checkered blanket and Van Gogh sits down to eat. From the picnic basket, he produces tiny ham sandwiches, a cluster of grapes, mozzarella cheese cut into squares, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and a bottle of sparkling grape juice. It’s only until he finishes setting out their lunch that he notices Kennedy’s slack jaw.

“What?”

“This is so. . .fancy!!” Kennedy exclaims, “you didn’t have to spend all night making this! You could’ve just made some grilled cheeses and called it a day!!” 

Van Gogh giggled, “It took me all of twenty minutes to pull this together. It looks a lot fancier than it actually is.” 

They finish lunch in peace and Van Gogh takes out his painting supplies. Kennedy does not look at Vincent, but instead at his hands. He takes the right one in his palm, studying it. Its digits are so nimble, and so careful. So very careful with everything they handle. His fingernails are caked in dried paint. Some have even been permanently stained. John loves it all. These are the things that make Vincent himself. 

Overcome with love, John holds Vincent’s hand to his lips and kisses it slowly. Vincent laughs softly at the silly gesture. 

“What are you doing, John?” he asks with a giggle. 

“Nothing” John replies “I just love your hands so much.”

“Yes, but I’m going to paint now,” Van Gogh says, but he doesn’t force Kennedy away. He waits until Kennedy lets his fingers go on his own accord and then begins painting. 

It’s just a quick piece for fun. He doesn’t try to imitate his father’s style. He’s not here to study art. He’s here to be with Kennedy. Kennedy sits on the blanket and watches him paint in silence. They talk occasionally, but that’s mainly what they do, enjoy each other’s presence.

“I really like it when you paint like that,” Kennedy says.

Van Gogh laughs. “No, this is just something to pass the time with. It’s just in my own style. It’s nothing like it’s supposed to be.”

“What’s it supposed to be like.”

Van Gogh hesitates, a little embarrassed at the answer, “. . .like my father’s.”

A beat of silence follows his answer. Finally Kennedy adds, “I like your own style better. You look so. . .happy when you paint like this.”

“That’s because it’s easy to paint like this. It’s fun.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be fun?”

“Not always. Studying is more important than having fun.”

“I get that, but. . .” Kennedy trails off.

“I need to learn to paint like my father, John,” Van Gogh insists, “this is what I want for myself. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Kennedy says, “I just want you to be happy.”

Van Gogh smiles. “I’m bored of this anyway.” He turns around to cuddle with Kennedy. He lays in between his legs and rests his head on his chest, sitting up to kiss him every once in the while. The sun begins to set, and the sunflowers watch it, a chilly fall breeze causing them to sway and bend as if they’re dancing. If heaven exists, this is it.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Kennedy says as they lie together.

“We’re teenagers, Jack,” Van Gogh says, “we don’t know what love is.”

“Bullshit,” Kennedy says suddenly, “I’m tired of people saying that. I’m not very smart, but I know that I love you, Vincent.”

Van Gogh smiles and kisses Kennedy once more. “Fuck it. I love you too.”


	15. Beneath the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kennedy surprises Van Gogh with a gift while Charlotte makes her distrust for Kennedy known.

One Wednesday, however, Van Gogh notices Kennedy acting a little different, a little more secretive. A few instances fuel this suspicion of Van Gogh: Kennedy refuses to let Van Gogh see what he’s writing during break, he zones out often while they are talking, and he catches Kennedy in the library, a place he NEVER visits. Additionally, Kennedy asks him questions as well, like: “What toppings do you get on a burger” or “Do you like sitting outside at night” and things like that. From this strange behavior, Van Gogh finally realizes that Kennedy is trying to, as discreetly as he can, plan a surprise date for him. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he opens his locker to get his chemistry book and a handwritten note falls out:

Roses are red

Violats are blue

I’ll be ready at five

For a date with you 

_ He spelled violets wrong. _ The poem is no work of art, but Van Gogh hugs it to his chest and puts it into the breast pocket of his trench coat.

As he turns around to head to class, he catches a glimpse of a familiar red and white sweater darting behind a wall. His heart flutters.  _ That adorable dork. _

***

Van Gogh sits on the love seat by the front door, watching out the window. He looks down at his watch. 4:55 pm. His mother is in the living room, watching TV. The lights are off, and they’re both silent. Van Gogh doesn’t mind though. Charlotte is always so prickly when he goes out with Kennedy that he’d rather her not talk at all. He doesn’t think Charlotte likes Kennedy.  _ She’ll learn to like him eventually, _ he thinks to himself, _ if this relationship lasts that long.  _ Van Gogh shakes the last sentence from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about the future. He doesn’t want to think about the end. He just wants to be in the present. Van Gogh looks down at his watch again. It’s 5:00. A second later, the red convertible pulls up into the driveway. Van Gogh pulls his messenger bag over his shoulder and turns back to say goodbye to Charlotte.

“I’m headed out mom,” he says to her.

“Okay,” Charlotte answers. She walks over to him and hugs him tightly. They pull back, and Van Gogh notices her expression. It’s one of apprehension and suspicion, and Van Gogh can’t stay silent any longer.

“You don’t trust him, do you,” he says. It’s not a question, but rather a statement. Charlotte looks surprised but sighs and looks away as she thinks of an answer.

“No, not really,” she answers honestly, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Vincent. I know what kids like Kennedy are like, and I know what they do to kids like you.”

“Mom, it’s not like that. He loves me.” Van Gogh knows he sounds naïve, but what defense does he have?

“I know, I know, and I trust you, but I’m just worried.”

“Well you don’t need to be,” Van Gogh says, hugging her again, “I know what I’m doing. You have to trust me.” 

Charlotte nods, but Van Gogh knows this hasn’t changed anything. She’s definitely protective of him, and although he appreciates it, it can be a little frustrating and unnecessary at times. He just wishes she could see what he sees in Kennedy. 

Van Gogh steps outside and walks to Kennedy’s car. His concerns about Charlotte melt away when he sees the jock’s broad grin. He opens the passenger seat door and steps inside.

“Are you ready?” Kennedy asks him, still smiling, and Van Gogh can’t help but do so as well.

“Sure,” he says, and Kennedy tears out of the neighborhood.

The drive feels long as they twist and turn on backroads Van Gogh doesn’t recognize, the sun dipping below the trees.

“Where are you taking me, Jack?” Van Gogh asks as they drive. 

“You’ll see in a moment.”

“Do you have any idea how terrifying that sounds?”

“C’mon. Trust me.”

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. “I trust you.”

They continue to drive until they reach a parking lot by a forest. The pair steps out. Van Gogh walks over to a sign. 

“You took me to a mountain?”

“Yes!” Kennedy exclaims happily, “I wanted to have a picnic somewhere besides the sunflower field, for a change of pace, you know! I brought McDonald’s.”

Van Gogh steps away from the sign and kisses Kennedy on the lips. Kennedy on the cheek. “This is really sweet of you.”

“Thanks shortstack.”

“I love you.”

Kennedy shifts a little at the sudden change of pace. “I-I love you too.”

Van Gogh smiles. “C’mon. Show me where you want to eat.”

The pair enters a hiking trail and begins to ascend the mountain. They step over rocks and roots. Van Gogh, having not forgotten the circumstances that lead to his injury at the cross country meet, holds tight to Kennedy’s arm as they walk.

After a few minutes of hiking, the forest thins out. When they reach the top of the mountain, Van Gogh lets out a gasp. Below them is a thick canopy of pines and deciduous trees right in the midst of their yearly transition, broken only by the grey roads winding their way through the forest. Just beyond it, Van Gogh can see the lights of Exclamation!

“How is it?”

“Everything’s so small when we’re up here. . .I love it. Is this how you felt when I brought you to the sunflower field?”

“Yeah,” Kennedy answers, “that was my point, actually. To make you feel like how I felt that day.”

Van Gogh turns around and pecks Kennedy on the cheek. “Well, it worked. It’s fantastic up here. Shall we eat?”

“Let’s.”

The pair eats while watching the sun sink beneath the horizon. The sunset ends, and night falls. The moon rises, bringing with it an army of specks of light. Kennedy and Van Gogh rest their heads on Kennedy’s book bag and watch the stars in silence, holding one another’s hands.

“Kennedy,” Van Gogh begins after a while, “can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?”

“Were you the one who found me in the ravine when I broke my leg?”

Kennedy shifts to look at Van Gogh. “Were you thinking about the ravine when we walked up here?”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Sorry. Uh, yeah. It was me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Kennedy reaches up to scratch the side of his face. “Before we were dating, I guess I just thought it would be weird, like I was overstepping a boundary or something by mentioning it. When we got in a relationship, I guess I just kinda forgot or something.”

“Mm. You should tell my mom that.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Kennedy says with a laugh of incredulity, “Vincent, your mom hates me.”

“Well, maybe she wouldn’t hate you if you told her that,” Van Gogh points out.

“She wouldn’t give me the chance to speak!” Kennedy says, “forgive me for not wanting my brain splattered over the roof of a car.”

Van Gogh snorts at the dark joke. Any tension that remained between the two fizzles away. Kennedy wraps his arm around Van Gogh.

“C’mon. Let’s forget about your mom and stargaze.”

The pair cuddles close together and stare up at the sky once more. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they,” Van Gogh says, “just shimmering diamonds bobbing in an endless pool of ink. I need to make another painting with them.”

“God, Vincent, you’re so talented,” Kennedy exclaims, “have you thought about entering something for the Fall Festival this year?”

Van Gogh is silent for a moment. “John, I don’t know about that. . .”

“You don’t have to,” Kennedy assures him, “but, for what it’s worth, I think it would be a great opportunity to show all those asshole, bigoted teens the real, gifted Van Gogh.”

Van Gogh smiles at the idea of Rathbone and his goons swooning at one of his paintings. Kennedy is right, though. It would be a good opportunity to express himself. It’s about time the clone of a famous painter enters an art exhibition. 

“Alright. I’ll enter something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Chapter title: The Picnic 2: Electric Boogaloo   
> Kennedy is just too dumb too come up with his own date ideas, bless his soul.
> 
> Honestly, this is probably my least favorite chapter, both due to its similarities to the one before it and also because of poor quality due to exhaustion, but it was a necessary evil because it establishes important ✨plot things✨
> 
> Also, that poem Kennedy gave Van Gogh is the worst fucking thing I’ve ever written.


	16. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things become too much for Van Gogh

Over the past few days, Van Gogh has been working diligently on his painting for the Fall Festival. He chooses to recreate The Olive Grove, a painting by his father with fall-like colors. He sets to work almost immediately, studying and heavily referencing the original work. He is determined to make it the best piece he’s ever created.

However, with these high expectations come disappointments, and Van Gogh soon found, much to his horror, that he wasn’t proud of the piece at all. Still, he soldiered on, but one night, he could no longer take it.

On this night, silence reigns. Van Gogh sits on a stool at his desk, fairy lights twinkling around him. Not exactly ideal lighting for painting, but the harsh glow of his normal lamps makes him nervous, so he opts to keep them off. With hesitant hands, Vincent grabs yellow and orange from his box of paints. He squirts dabs of each onto his paint crusted pallet and mixes them together until the swirls of each dissolved into a dark gold color. 

Vincent took his paintbrush and lifted it to the canvas. He shut his eyes.  _ You can do this he thinks to himself,  _ but his determination wavers when he views his current project. His painting is so dull, so flat, and devoid of everything that made the original Vincent Van Gogh’s rendition so special. 

_ It’s going to be fine, _ Vincent thinks to himself. He takes a deep breath and hesitantly puts his brush to the canvas, making a single stroke of his newly mixed color. He retracts his hand. 

_ Wait, that’s not right.  _

The color is too bright. Vincent reaches for his bucket of paints and rummages around in it, looking frantically for some sort of neutralizer. He finally snatches up some brown paint and squirts a bit into his current color. The paint has barely mixed before he smears another glob directly onto the canvas. 

_ Still not right.  _

Vincent feels his breathing quicken. Everything was going wrong. Vincent shoves his hand into the paints for a third time, noisily examining each color. Once he settles on Burnt Siena, he whips back to his canvas at such momentum that he drops his paint pallet. It falls face down on the floor with a splat, yellows, oranges, and browns spilling onto the hardwood floor. 

That was it. Van Gogh feels frustration consume him. He drops his paintbrush and clamps his hands over his mouth as a sob takes hold of him. His breathing quickens, and it feels like someone has put a weight on his chest. Van Gogh jumps from the stool and falls onto his bed, pressing his face into a pillow as his sobs intensify and the tightness in his chest grows worse and worse. 

He’ll never be as good as his clone father. He’d inherited his pain, but none of his talent. He is a waste of technology. A failed experiment. 

As these hateful thoughts invade Van Gogh, he grasps at the sheets on his bed when he feels something strange. It is soft, and Vincent can feel the cuff of a sleeve. 

He peeks out from the pillow to see an oh so familiar red and white sweater. It is Kennedy’s. 

Kennedy. For an instant, his panic is abated and replaced with gentle warmth. Kennedy. He needs to talk to Kennedy. 

Van Gogh grabs his phone from his bedside table and opens the messenger app. With shaky hands and vision blurred from tears, he types up a simple three-word message: I need you. 

Maybe a minute or two passes when Van Gogh’s phone dings again. He picks it up and reads the message. ‘Okay. I’ll be there in a few,’ was Kennedy’s reply. 

Van Gogh continues to sob into his pillow until there is a light knock on the window. He jumps from the bed. Sure enough, Kennedy is outside. He throws open his window and Kennedy has barely clamored inside when Van Gogh wraps his arms around him, sobbing into his chest.

“Woah, easy Vincent,” he says, wrapping his arms around the boy.

“I can’t- I can’t- I’m-”

Kennedy shushes him, moving to lay on the bed. His back is to the wall and Van Gogh is lying in between his legs, head on his chest, clinging to Kennedy as his life depends on it. 

Kennedy holds Van Gogh tightly, stroking his hair, but in reality, he’s scared out of his mind. The boy he loves is hyperventilating, shaking, and clinging to him as if he’s on death’s door. He has no idea how to help him. He’s never had to deal with this before. 

Overwhelmed, Kennedy begins doing the first thing that comes to mind: singing.

_ Starry, starry night _

_ Paint your palette blue and grey _

_ Look out on a summer’s day _

_ With eyes that know the darkness in my soul _

The song is some sappy ballad by a guy called Don Mclean. Kennedy has listened to it religiously for the past few weeks for obvious reasons. He knows this is stupid, but he begins to notice Van Gogh, ever so slightly, calming down at the sound of his voice

_ Shadows on the hills _

_ Sketch the trees and the daffodils _

_ Catch the breeze and the winter chills _

_ In colors on the snowy linen land _

_ Now I understand _

_ What you tried to say to me  _

_ And how you suffered for your sanity  _

_ And how you tried to set them free _

_ They would not listen, they did not know how _

_ Perhaps they’ll listen now _

_ For they could not love you _

_ But still your love was true _

_ And when no hope was left in sight  _

_ On that starry, starry night _

_ You took your life, as lovers often do _

_ But I could have told you, Vincent _

_ This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you _

Van Gogh’s panicked gasps for air have devolved into occasional sniffles. They lay together for a moment longer, basking in each other’s presence. If anything invades their solitude, Van Gogh feels his world will crumble.

“I’m so tired,” Van Gogh finally says, tears returning to his eyes, “I don’t wanna worry about imitating Van Gogh’s style anymore. I just want to enjoy painting.”

“Then paint how you want,” Kennedy assures him.

“It’s not that simple.”

“You don’t have to be like your father, Vincent,” Kennedy says adamantly, “you don’t. You’re your own person. Paint how you want.”

“I’m a waste. . .a failure unless I can paint like him.”

“No, you’re not. Vincent, you are so fucking not a failure. You don’t have to be like your father to be great. You’re already fantastic.”

Van Gogh starts crying again.

“Promise me something, Vincent.”

“What?”

“Whatever you paint for the Fall Festival, whether it looks like your father’s work or not, it’s what you want to paint. Not what the world wants, but what you want. Can you promise me that?”

Vincent answers in a barely audible yes, before his tears come even harder. Kennedy wraps an arm around Van Gogh’s back and kisses the top of his head.

Unbenounced to them, Charlotte is just on the other side of the wall, listening to their exchange, a hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying too loud.

***

Kennedy and Van Gogh laid together all night until they fell asleep. Kennedy awoke early that morning to return to his house before he was missed. The sun was just barely peeking up over the rows of townhouses as he slipped out of Van Gogh’s window. He crept across the lawn and walked around to the front of the house, preparing to cross the road and cut through a few lawns.

“Don’t remember you coming in last night.”

Kennedy stops dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly to see Charlotte perched on the railing of the front porch, coffee cup in hand, and a stern look on her face.

Kennedy immediately jumps to his and Vincent’s defense. “We didn’t do anything last night, Ms. Herring! Vin- Van Gogh was having a panic attack and he called me and I- “

“I believe you, Kennedy,” Charlotte interrupts him, “I heard everything last night.”

“You did?” Charlotte nods and takes a sip from her coffee. Kennedy waits for her to continue her thoughts, holding his breath.

“You know, when Vincent told me you and him were dating, I didn’t trust you at all,” she admits, “I thought you were playing some sick prank on my son, and after I was assured of the sincerity of your interest in him, I still believed you weren’t invested at all in the relationship, and that you’d leave when you got bored and break my son’s heart.”

Kennedy feels a little put off by her words, but he lets her continue.

“But when I heard you singing to my son last night, when I heard you tell him that he was fantastic, when I realized that you’d gone out of your way to help him through a time of need, I was proven wrong. You’re not just some playboy using my son as a means of entertainment. You legitimately care about him.”

“I do,” Kennedy says, the extent of his devotion to Van Gogh evident in the small phrase, “I really do like him.”

Charlotte smiles. “You don’t like him, you  _ love  _ him. ‘Like’ is a childish word, and you’re not loving like children.”

Charlotte walks over to him, puts her hands on his arms, and looks up at him. Her brown eyes are watering, “You’re a good man, Kennedy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is gonna get me in trouble lol
> 
> It's a little cringy but it's necessary for the ploooot
> 
> The next chapter will be more fluff again I swear
> 
> Also, I have an Instagram! I'm not entirely sure what I'm gonna use it for yet, but I think I'll just be using that account to chat with fellow fans, post my thoughts about certain fanworks and also post updates on my fanfics. If you'd like to chat feel free to dm me! The account is @amber_hollyhock


	17. Dinner with Charlotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kennedy has dinner with Charlotte and Van Gogh.

Van Gogh wanted nothing more than for Charlotte to like Kennedy, but he expected weeks or even months of wearing her down. He was fully prepared for this tedious process, but Van Gogh was awfully surprised to walk downstairs the next morning and find his mother had changed her mind about his boyfriend seemingly overnight.

“That Kennedy kid is a real sweetheart,” she said, and Van Gogh had nearly choked on his food.

“We talked this morning,” Charlotte explains, eyes cast upward, “he really cares about you.”

The initial shock wears off, and Van Gogh is overcome with happiness. He isn’t entirely sure what prompted this change of heart, but that doesn’t matter to him right now. His two favorite people are getting along, and now he wants to join them together.

“What if he came to dinner tonight,” Van Gogh prompts.

Charlotte’s eyes light up. “I’d love that.”

***

The following afternoon, Van Gogh is a mess. He’s nervous about the meeting between Kennedy and Charlotte. They’re both silly, sex addicted, and a bit dim witted. They’ll either get along swell or rip one another’s throats out.

On top of the meeting of his foster mom and boyfriend, he’s also worried about his Fall Festival painting. He kept his promise to Kennedy, and decided the best course of action was to restart the thing entirely. He’d be making an original painting now, but the real question is what would he paint? The entire afternoon was spent attempting to find an answer for that question. He paced laps around his small room. He drew up thumbnail after thumbnail, only to ball them up and throw them in a wastebasket. Despite the fact that he would be painting in his own style, he still had very high expectations. This would be his painting, and it would be fucking perfect.

Van Gogh was so immersed in his painting that he failed to notice the ringing of the doorbell, the heavy footsteps in the doorway, or the warm greetings of his foster mom as his guest slipped inside.

***

“Please, make yourself at home,” Charlotte says, gesturing for Kennedy to step inside. Kennedy, used to angry glares and passive aggressive greetings, is taken aback by Charlotte’s sudden kindness. It is not unwelcomed, and Kennedy quickly steps inside from the cold evening air.

“Why thanks Ms. H,” he replies, pulling off his letterman jacket and sitting at the table. An assortment of cold cuts and crackers is on the counter. Kennedy grabs a snack from the collection.

“Vincent should be here in a moment,” Charlotte says as she stirs the food in the skillet, “until then, we can chat.”

Silence reigns, only the sizzle of the food in the skillet saving them from a blanket void of awkwardness.

“Vincent’s usually the man with the words,” Kennedy remarks, “at least the good ones anyway.”

“Yeah,” Charlotte says, “he can be quiet at times, but damn, when he gets to talking about the shit he really knows, he can really do it*. Everything he says goes over my head.”

“And he knows what he’s talking about too.”

“Absolutely. He amazes me every day.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy says, “too bad we’re too dumb to engage him.”

“It’s a crying shame,” Charlotte agrees, and she adds, “so, now that you’re a couple, did he give you a-“ she makes a wiggling motion with her arm.

“A what?”

“A worm on a string!”

“Oh! Of course!” Kennedy says, reaching into his pocket to show off his worm, “I carry it with me everyday!”

“Oh my god, same!” Charlotte exclaims, holding up a wine glass to reveal a worm wrapped around the stem. Kennedy laughs, and Charlotte joins him.

***

Van Gogh leans back in his chair, raking a hand through his apricot hair. He’s been working for a while now. He really needs a break. Maybe he should go wait for Kennedy to arrive, wait what time is it? Van Gogh looks at the clock and realizes with a jolt of horror that it’s six thirty. Kennedy said he'd arrive half an hour ago!

Afraid of the outcome of his foster mom and boyfriend meeting each other alone, he ran out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. To his surprise and perhaps to his confusion, he finds Charlotte teaching Kennedy how to waltz to Valzer Dei Fiori.

“Shortstack!”

“Tater tot!”

The pair looks at each other in pleasant surprise.

“You call Vincent by a nickname?!” Charlotte exclaims.

“Yes!”

“Shortstack. . .I like that one,” Charlotte muses.

“Tater tot isn’t bad either.”

“Oh god,” Van Gogh puts his face in his hands, “you two are terrible influences on each other.”

“Perhaps,” Charlotte says, “anyways, dinner is ready, kids. Let’s eat.”

The boys help Charlotte set the table and they take their seats. With the clatter of forks, the sound of soft classical music, and the smell of candles burning, dinner begins.

“So, how’s the food?” Charlotte asks.

“Oh, it’s fantastic, Ms. H!” Kennedy says.

“Indeed,” Van Gogh remarks, “I didn’t know you had it in you, mom.”

“You underestimate me, tater tot. On occasion, I can act like a good mother,” she remarks, sipping on her wine.

“You already are a good mother,” Van Gogh assures her, “you’ve always got a wine glass in hand.”

“Oh, you little hypocrite,” she snaps and points an accusing finger at her foster son, “You’re no teetotal! That’s right! I know all about you sneaking out and getting shit faced a month ago!”

“What? How?”

“I’m your mother,” Charlotte says, “I know everything!”

“Do you know about the stack of playgirl magazines under my bed?”

Charlotte spits out her wine. Kennedy loses his mind.

“Wow hon, I didn’t know you had such a dirty mind,” Kennedy says slyly.

Van Gogh smiles slyly, “who doesn’t like surprises.”

“Ugh! Get a room you two!”

Dinner continues with the same chaotic hubbub. Van Gogh is relieved to see that Kennedy and Charlotte are getting along, although they seem to be getting along too well, and team up to embarrass Van Gogh.

Dinner ends, and Charlotte continues teaching Kennedy how to dance. Eventually, the pair convinces Van Gogh to join in, and he and Kennedy salsa together until they can barely stand. At that point, Kennedy bids them goodbye, and Van Gogh sees him out the door.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Kennedy says, “your mom is pretty cool.”

“She’s something like that,” Van Gogh says, “so when do I get to meet your parents.”

“Oh geez. They’re going to love you.”

Van Gogh giggles, and then adds, “I’m redoing the painting.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I thought it would work better. I’m having trouble thumbnailing it, though.”

“It’s gonna look great,” Kennedy assures him, kissing Van Gogh on the forehead, “I promise.”

Van Gogh smiles, stands on his toes, and presses his lips to Kennedy’s. The kiss is slow, sweet, and tired. When they back away, Kennedy shoots him a goofy grin.

“Can I get another?”

“Go home, pretty boy.”

Kennedy rolls his eyes, kisses his boyfriend on the cheek and treks across the dark front lawn. Van Gogh watches him from the porch until he disappears into the inky black night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff. Fluff as far as the eye can see!
> 
> Charlotte and Kennedy’s “idiots who love Van Gogh” solidarity is what I LIVE for. 
> 
> Also the dancing is platonic, FYI


	18. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh is silent. Kennedy tightens his grip on him. “We don’t have to tell anyone, ever. This can just be our secret.”
> 
> “John,” Van Gogh frees himself from Kennedy’s grasp and turns around to look at him, “we can’t keep this a secret forever. People are going to find out eventually. We need to start considering how they’re going to find out.”

Days come and go. Van Gogh and Kennedy grow closer and closer, falling further and further into love as time stretches on. When they are together the silly, unimportant aspects of teen life are drowned out by the raw, all-consuming beauty of their love. When they are alone, they enter into their own reality. It is a reality of seclusion and darkness, where they can cuddle and kiss in only the dim light of rocket trails and stars. It is breathtaking. It is comforting. It is all theirs.

Kennedy continues to play football. Van Gogh stays after school to work on his painting. After practice is over, Kennedy takes Van Gogh home, and the pair visits until dinner. It’s a wonderful life. Of course, anything is wonderful for them when they are together. 

It’s afternoon, two days before the Fall Festival. Van Gogh is painting alone in the art room, afternoon sunlight shining in and illuminating him in a heavenly glow. He’s working on his painting when he hears heavy footsteps walking up behind him. He barely pays them any mind until a pair of strong arms wrap around him and he feels a chin resting on his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to see what I’m working on,” he chides, despite the smile on his face.

“My eyes are closed,” Kennedy assures him with a soft voice that makes Van Gogh melt. He should’ve known Kennedy wouldn’t forget. He’s considerate like that.

“I thought so,” Van Gogh says, “I was just making sure.”

Kennedy laughs softly and kisses Van Gogh on the cheek. Van Gogh continues to paint, but it gets harder to focus as Kennedy keeps pressing kisses along his jaw. 

“How was football practice,” Van Gogh asks.

“Good,” he answers, still whispering, “the team’s getting along well this year. I’m thinking Friday’s gonna be an easy win, especially considering the kind of season Gesh is having.”

“Yeah, the last game you had with them was an absolute knockout,” Van Gogh agrees, “thanks to you, of course. That throw you did looked impressive, but that’s just me. I know nothing about football.”

“Don’t sweat it, shortstack. You’ll eventually learn the rules,” Kennedy says.

Van Gogh scoffs. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to focus on anything other than those tight pants of yours.”

Kennedy laughs and kisses Van Gogh for the millionth time. “Speaking of football, will you be coming to the Festival?”

Van Gogh stiffens up. “I don’t know if I’m ready-”

“You don’t have to come as my date,” Kennedy assures him, “we can just go alone and then hang out together.”

“Can we? I mean, people are already talking. We have to come clean eventually.”

Van Gogh is silent. Kennedy tightens his grip on him. “We don’t have to tell anyone, ever. This can just be our secret.”

“John,” Van Gogh frees himself from Kennedy’s grasp and turns around to look at him, “we can’t keep this a secret forever. People are going to find out eventually. We need to start considering how they’re going to find out.”

Kennedy stares down at him. “So is that a yes?”

Van Gogh shakes his head. “It’s more of a ‘let’s think about it and make a decision later’,” he answers, giving his boyfriend a kiss to let him know there are no hard feelings, “you can go ahead and go home. I need to stay behind and work on this some more.”

Kennedy nods and walks out the door. 

***

Kennedy steps outside the school, the chilly fall wind harsh against his exposed arms. He slips on his letterman jacket and leans against the brick wall. He doesn’t go to his car. He’s got plenty of time to drive home. Besides, he doesn’t feel like doing anything right now except think about what Van Gogh said. 

_ He’s right,  _ Kennedy realizes. People are going to find out, one way or another. He’s heard the rumors, the suspicious whispers passed between students when they think no one is looking. Kennedy tries to ignore them. He’s making strides to care less about the opinions of his classmates, to be the person he wants to be as opposed to the person everyone else believes he should be, but he knows that coming clean about his relationship with Van Gogh will ruin him. He’ll be reduced to an outcast, a loner, and any friends who haven’t already cut ties with him will definitely do so after they find out. Although Kennedy loves Van Gogh, sometimes, against his better judgment, he wonders if what they have is really worth losing everything for. 

Kennedy is so deep in thought that he fails to notice footsteps approaching. He realizes all too late that they belong to his former friends Rathbone, Hudson, and Caesar. The trio rounds the corner, laughing at something, but they stop when their eyes land on Kennedy. The two parties stare at one another in astonishment. Kennedy moves from the wall and stands up straight, trying to appear more confident than he actually is. Finally, when his former friends register that they are in the presence of Kennedy, they begin snickering at him, casting knowing glances at one another.

“What?” Kennedy snaps. Rathbone steps forward, an uncontainable grin spread across his face.

“We saw you in the art room,” he says, Kennedy feels dread wash over him and the color drains from his face. The trio roars with laughter at his reaction, but Kennedy can barely hear them. It feels as though his head is underwater.

“Oh my god! The look on his face!” Hudson cries.

“Dear god! I knew you were hanging out with Van Gogh but holy shit!’

“This is so weird!”

Rathbone pulls out his phone and holds it up to Kennedy. It’s pictures of him in the art room, arms wrapped around Van Gogh and face pressed into the boy’s neck. The trio continues to laugh hysterically. They treat the whole revelation as if it is some sort of spectacle. Some form of shock entertainment. John F Kennedy and Vincent Van Gogh in a relationship. A popular jock and a lonely artist. What would come next? 

Kennedy feels his mortification morph into pure anger. He and Vincent are so much more than a joke to be laughed at. They are not merely a jock and a nerd. They are Vincent and John, and they love each other with such ferocity and sincerity that is foreign to any gag or joke. 

It’s at their continued laughter that Kennedy finally snaps. He balls up his fist, swings around, and hooks Rathbone in the jaw. The force of the blow sends Rathbone stumbling back. Kennedy feels someone jab in the cheek. He turns around and retaliates, and the fight begins.

Kennedy goes absolutely ballistic. He throws punches and kicks and bites in a fit of blind rage. His previous fights have always been more shows of dominance, where he throws proud, calculated punches while a crowd of swooning girls and awestruck boys watch him. This isn’t anything like that. This fight is fueled by pure, unbridled, rage. 

A hand grabs a fistful of Kennedy’s hair and throws him to the ground. There’s a sharp pain in the side of his head. His ears are ringing and spots are invading his vision. Kennedy looks up to see Rathbone, bleeding from the lip and panting, holding up the picture of him and Van Gogh.

“Come tomorrow, everyone will have seen this picture,” he spits, “you’re finished, Kennedy. The king of Clone High is fucking dead!”

Rathbone turns around and limps away, Caesar and Hudson following close behind. Kennedy just watches them walk away, the pain from his head rendering it impossible to move. 

A few minutes later, the doors to the school open yet again, and Van Gogh walks outside, gripping the strap of his messenger bag. He takes a few steps out onto the sidewalk, and then his eyes land on Kennedy. A look of panic crosses his face and he runs to the aid of his boyfriend.

“John,” he says in horror, “oh my god John!”

He slips a hand underneath Kennedy’s shoulders and repositions him so that his head is laying in his lap. Stars invade Kennedy’s vision again, and he feels something warm and wet on the side of his face. He puts a hand to his temple and pulls it back to discover his fingertips stained with a crimson red liquid.

Memories of the original Kennedy’s head exploding in a spray of red flash through his mind. Kennedy feels his chest tighten and finds himself unable to breathe. He presses a hand to his head, the side of it slick with blood.

“I’m- my head,” he stammers, breathing labored. 

“John, Jack, it’s alright,” Van Gogh assures him quickly, raking a comforting hand through Kennedy’s hair, “it’s just a cut. Here. See for yourself.”

Van Gogh pulls out a compact mirror and holds it in front of Kennedy. 

“No, no, I- I can’t- I-“ Kennedy looks away, scared that he’ll see the inside of his head in the small, circular reflector.

“John, please,” Van Gogh pleads, voice breaking, “trust me.”

At this request, Kennedy steals a glance at his reflection, and sees a slender, open wound about two inches long. Kennedy releases the breath he was holding. Van Gogh continues to run his hands through Kennedy’s hair, whispering quiet assurances. When Kennedy’s breathing returns to normal, Van Gogh digs around in his messenger bag and produces a medical kit. 

He turns to Kennedy’s wounds and begins dabbing at the cut on his head with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic, although his hands are shaking and he’s on the verge of tears.

“God, John,” Van Gogh says in a trembling voice, “what happened?”

“Got into a fight,” Kennedy explains, “they saw us in the art room.”

Van Gogh’s eyes widen and he clasps a hand to his mouth. He lets out a mortified “oh”. 

“Guess we don’t have to worry about coming clean at the festival eh?” Kennedy says sinisterly.

“I’m so sorry,” Van Gogh says, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Kennedy assures him, “you didn’t do anything.”

“John, this is going to ruin you. No one will want to talk to you after this. You’ll have no friends. You’re going to be an outcast, like me.”

“And what about you? Every girl in school will have it out for your ass.”

“Heh, I guess we’re bad news for each other,” Van Gogh laughs, but Kennedy doesn’t.

“Don’t say that Vincent,” Kennedy lifts a hand to Van Gogh’s cheek and pulls his face down to meet his eyes, “don’t ever say that. I don’t care what they think. I don’t care about Hudson, or Rathbone, or hell, I don’t care what the original Kennedy would think. I love you. I just want to be with you.”

Tears fall freely down Van Gogh’s cheeks. He presses his forehead to Kennedy’s, smiling as he cries.

“I love you,” he whispers softly, “I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking much.”

Kennedy giggles softly at the admission, and leans up to kiss Van Gogh. They sit on the pavement, foreheads pressed together, giggling in euphoria as the sun sets behind them. 

“John,” Van Gogh begins, “you  _ will  _ take me to that fall festival, and you and I will dance until we can’t stand. Tomorrow, everyone will know we love each other, so let’s give them a show.”

“Kennedy smirks. “Whatever you say, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we approach the last leg of Kennedy and Van Gogh's arc, in which they deal with people's reactions to their relationship. Honestly, this is one of my favorite chapters, because it showcases just how much Kennedy and Van Gogh have grown and how willing they are to sacrifice their reputations for their love.


	19. The Fall Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Gogh and Kennedy attend the Fall Festival together.

"Alright, I think that’s good,” Charlotte says as she straightens out Van Gogh’s bowtie.

“You sure you’re not gonna redo it again?” Van Gogh teases.

“Shush. I only redid it once!” Charlotte retorts. She steps back to admire her handiwork and lets out a satisfied sigh. Van Gogh is wearing a white suit, the black bowtie providing a nice contrast.

“You look wonderful,” Charlotte says quietly, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her foster son, “I’m so proud of you.”

They pull away, looking into each other’s eyes. The pair has been through a lot the past few years, and they’ve come away from it with a strong, unshakable bond.

“I know I haven’t made this easy-” Van Gogh begins, but Charlotte cuts him off.

“Love is never supposed to be easy,” Charlotte assures him, “we’ve faced a lot of challenges together, and we’ve become stronger because of it. I love you so much, Vincent. You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They both tear up and hug once more. Their embrace is brought to an end by the ringing of the doorbell.

“Speak of the devil,” Charlotte says smartly. She steps toward the door, but Van Gogh stops her.

“Don’t answer the door just yet,” he says, “there’s something I need to do.”

Van Gogh rushes to the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He looks in the mirror, turning his head to see the bandage wrapped around his head. He takes a deep breath, grabs the ear of one of the ties, and pulls the bandage loose with one motion. It falls away to the floor, revealing the scars from his self inflicted injury. He’s missing most of his ear, the flesh where he cut it is jagged and uneven. He knows people will stare and whisper, but, odd as it may seem, that doesn’t bother him tonight. Besides, he feels it’s time that Kennedy sees his scars.

Van Gogh returns to the door and opens it. He finds Kennedy, in a black suit with green accents, standing in front of him. Van Gogh gasps when he realizes that Kennedy’s hair is down, merely a messy mop on his head as opposed to his meticulously styled beehive. It’s so sincere. It’s so John, and Van Gogh loves it. 

“Hey shortstack,” Kennedy says tenderly, handing him a bouquet of sunflowers. 

“Hey Jack,” Van Gogh replies, standing on his toes and kissing his boyfriend softly.

“Alright alright! Save that for after the festival when I’m conveniently gone for the entire night. Let’s get some pictures!”

Charlotte proceeds to hold Van Gogh and Kennedy hostage as she conducts a photo shoot in the living room, oohing and aahing at every picture she takes. She eventually frees them after ten minutes, and the pair hops into Kennedy’s car and they head to school. 

The drive is short, and they pull up to the school in just five minutes. The exterior of Clone High is decorated with a banner that reads “Annual Fall Festival” written in curly orange text. A few couples loiter outside on the grass, but Kennedy and Van Gogh are among the last people to arrive. Van Gogh inhales sharply and looks over at Kennedy, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation clawing at him.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Kennedy asks him for the final time.

Van Gogh turns to him. “Absolutely.”

“If it gets too much, just-”

“It won’t. I promise.”

The two get out of the car and walk to the entrance. Van Gogh slips his arm into Kennedy’s, and Kennedy leads him into the school. The few stragglers by the door stop and stare as they make their way down the hall, but the couple ignores them and keeps walking. They approach the closed gym doors, stopping for a minute to let a few couples go ahead of them. They want to make their grand entrance alone. 

They approach the doors. Van Gogh’s heart drums in his chest. Kennedy gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Van Gogh and Kennedy push open each of the gym doors. Everyone at the festival turns to look at the pair standing in the haze of the harsh hallway lights. They gasp when they realize that it is indeed who they think it is. The rumors are confirmed. The secret is out, and the couple couldn’t be happier.

The pair walks with confidence to the dance floor. Van Gogh ignores the stares and whispers from his fellow peers. All the other couples vacate the dance floor, and Kennedy and Van Gogh begin dancing shamelessly to the music, the rest of the occupants watching with slack jaws. So it’s true. Vincent Van Gogh and John F. Kennedy really are a couple. 

Van Gogh doesn’t care that he and Kennedy are the only ones dancing. All he cares about is swinging around the dance floor with the one he loves, soft disco lights casting light onto their graceful forms as their shoes squeak on the finished gym floors. 

Eventually, the other couples grow accustomed to their presence and rejoin them on the dance floor, the first of which is none other than Ponce de Leon and his girlfriend. Sometimes, while spinning around, Van Gogh sees Cleopatra glaring daggers at him from across the room. He also sees Caesar staring at him as he dances with Catherine, her clumsy feet proving to be a challenge for him. In one of his more bolder moments, Van Gogh winks at his former friend, and Caesar turns away quickly, red-faced with embarrassment at being caught staring at the gay guy who had a crush on him.

Eventually, the pair decides to take a break. They get some punch, cool down by the bleachers, and then, Van Gogh takes Kennedy’s hand and leads him away from the dance floor to where the art exhibition is located.

They stop in front of a wall of paintings, and Van Gogh points to one at the top right of the collection, a red second place ribbon dangling from the corner. It’s a painting of a sunflower field, rows and rows of yellow flowers extending endlessly into the horizon. And in that endless sea, there are two figures. One with messy apricot hair, and the other with a red and white sweater.

“Do you like it?” Van Gogh asks. Kennedy wraps an arm around Van Gogh and kisses him on the forehead.

“It’s fantastic, Vincent,” Kennedy says, feeling his eyes well up with tears. This painting is them. It is what it means to be in their relationship. Alone and together in the endless expanse of the world. They are the only people in the world.

On the bottom, in tiny black paint, are the initials V. H. Vincent Herring, not Vincent Van Gogh. This is his painting. This is his style and his life, and he will choose to use it how he wants. He is Vincent Herring, and he loves John. John is so lucky that Vincent Herring loves him.

The lights dim and a slow dance comes on. Kennedy pulls Van Gogh onto the dance floor. Here, wrapped in the arms of Kennedy, Van Gogh feels himself floating. Just for one night, as silly as it may seem, Van Gogh allows himself to believe that every trial and tribulation he has ever faced has led to this moment, this dance, this relationship, Kennedy. The past and the future melt away. All that matters is the smell of Kennedy’s cologne and the feeling of his arms wrapped around him. Van Gogh looks up into Kennedy’s eyes, and he gives him a look that emanates eternal gratefulness. Gratefulness that they can be here, after all the hurdles they have crossed, after all the trials they have endured, and after everything. A look that seems to say, “It’s alright. We’ve won now. And I won’t ever leave you, from now till the stars go dim.”

_ I think we could do it if we tried _

_ If only to say you’re mine _

_ So, Vincent know that you and I _

_ Shouldn’t feel like a crime _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, it's finished! 
> 
> I'd like to thank each and every one of you readers for your kudos, your kind words, and your patience with this very VERY slow burn fic. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beta reader, who's support and suggestions are very much appreciated.
> 
> "You and I Shouldn't Feel Like a Crime" is very much a labor of love, and although it is far from perfect, this fic as well as JFGogh as a whole will always hold a very special place in my heart. 
> 
> I probably won't be posting much JFGogh related content after this, but if you like my writing style, please consider keeping up with me, as I'll probably be writing for a variety of different fandoms as well. 
> 
> Once again, thank you all for reading. Your support means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm Amber! Thank you for reading my fic! Updates come every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday at 5:00 PM EST. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
> 
> If you like my shit, consider following me at @amber_hollyhock on Instagram. My dms are always open and I’ll be posting a random thought from time to time, so feel from to drop on by!


End file.
